Ahoy, Love!
by katinki
Summary: COMPLETE. One big, white boat, one unfortunate tropical storm, a few too many bottles of booze, and two single thirty-somethings hanging out, maybe falling in love, and trying to not lose their minds amidst the endless rounds of shuffleboard and Bingo. Just a bit of fluffy summer fun to take the bite out of Old Man Winter. AH.
1. GALA

**Disclaimer(s):** Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight. I do absolutely ridiculous things to her characters, nothing more.

**Regarding cruises/cruising:** The cruise ship/line/personnel/schedule/etc described herein doesn't actually exist. This is merely an blend of my imagination and all of the various cruises I've been on throughout the years. I've fiddled around with a lot of things, so if you're a fellow cruiser, don't be alarmed. I did borrow Princess's deck nomenclature. Oh, and ED Alec is loosely based on this awesome and hilarious guy hubs and I encountered on one of our early vacations.

**Other important stuff before we get started (after this, I swear I won't clog the chapter-ettes with my rambling):  
**

**1. This is an angst-free zone.** It's fun, fluffy, a little smutty, and maybe… okay, yes… it's ripe with sarcastic commentary. You guys know I can't do straight romance anyway.

**2. **This is only about 1/3 of the way beta'd. **Scooterstale** (who is best first mate _ever_) fixed up the first bit a good while back, but then I stopped writing on it for a few months. And now, since it's all for fun and giggles anyway, I just decided I'll throw it up here, as is. Okay, fine, she's also on vacation right now ;P As such, any icebergs, sandbars, leaky toilets, randomly placed commas, and/or typos you may find, especially in the latter decks, are all on me.

**Bon Voyage!**

* * *

**Summary:** One big, white boat, one unfortunate tropical storm, a few too many bottles of booze, and two single thirty-somethings hanging out, maybe falling in love, and trying to not lose their minds amidst the endless rounds of shuffleboard and Bingo. Just a bit of fluffy summer fun to take the bite out of Old Man Winter.

* * *

**GALA**

"No, absolutely _not_. No way am I going."

"Bella, it's been eight months! Eight!"

"So?"

"Precisely. _So_, it's time for you to actually _do_ something."

"I do _do_ something."

"Yeah, right. You work."

"I_ like_ working."

"Liar."

"Fine, I like staying busy."

"Whatever. You like not having to think about that jerk-face asshole."

"You're impossible… I'm not going. That's final."

"Yes, you are."

"Give me one good reason."

"The documents are already filled out. It's already paid for! _You_ paid for it. Why? Oh, right. Because jerk-face asshole was a _cheap_ jerk-face asshole."

"Al– "

"Don't even give me that. He totally forfeited any claim he had when he…"

"Left me?"

"You know what I mean. Don't even start sulking."

"I wasn't going to sulk."

"Yes, you were. You always sulk when it comes to him."

"Do not."

"Do, too. Uh, best friend here?! Trust me. I've heard it all."

"Explain again just how we're friends?"

"Because I'm awesome, and you know it. Now back to the topic."

"Fine, beyond it already being paid for, why the hell would I want to go by myself?"

"Duh! It's a vacation!"

"I–"

"Plus, you need a place to stay anyway. Your house is being fumigated."

"What?!"

"I called the Health Department. They're coming day after tomorrow and they won't let you stay there for at least a week anyway. Okay, fine, and it's possible that they might even arrest you if you're there."

"Oh, my God!"

"Yeah, I told them that there were at least four-thousand tarantulas living in the crawl space. I said you were an arachnid hoarder."

"No! Just no way. You did not! That's complete bullshit. No way would anyone ever believe that load of crap anyway. Tarantulas don't even live here!"

"Well, Jessica believed me. Granted, she's not really that smart."

"Are you fucking serious? You told my next-door neighbor, who already thinks I'm a terrorist or something, that I collect spiders? What the fuck, Alice!"

"Yeah, she's totally sleeping with that Health Inspector guy, by the way. She was so freaked out that I don't think you could ever convince them not to come."

"Wait, Jessica's sleeping with Mike? Like idiot Mike, who only has that job because his dad is mayor?"

"Yep. So, you better start packing, B. Your flight leaves tomorrow night at eight. Jazzy said he'd drop you off on his way to the hospital. _Ugh_, he's back on nights again… And crap, someone's beeping in. I gotta go, okay?"

"This is so stupid."

"Well, then you can tell me all about it when you get home."

"I hate you."

"Whatever. Don't forget the aloe!"


	2. PLAZA I

**PLAZA I****  
**

Which is why, at three o'clock in the afternoon on a Monday, instead of sipping lukewarm coffee and sorting through the mountain of paperwork decorating my desk, I'm hundreds of miles away from home, standing on a concrete dock, luggage in hand, and gaping at what has to be the biggest boat I've ever seen in my life.

Seriously, not kidding here. This thing takes up like… the whole freaking dock and it's a solid fourteen stories high. _At least_ fourteen stories, I correct. God only knows how many decks are _under_ the water. And okay, no lie, that thought is more than disconcerting. It's not like I'm claustrophobic or anything (fine, maybe a little), but there's something just… not right about that, and in a brief moment of panic, I realize I have no idea where my room is.

Alice's annoyingly right voice rings in my ear, _That's what you get for letting jerk-face asshole have your credit card!_

I quickly shake that thought off, though, because I really, _really_ don't want to be thinking about _him_. I've done way too much of that. Besides, he's with _her_ now, and I'm, well, I'm with me.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

As I continue to stare (read: gape) at what's going to be my home away from home for the next several days, I notice that there are all of these other boats hanging off of it, too, which, if I were a rational person, really should disturb me more than all the sub-waterline decks. Cause see, I know what they're for. Those are the what-if boats – you know, in case we pull a _Titanic_ and have to abandon ship because some guy decides to play chicken with an iceberg. Okay, or more likely a sandbar in our case since we're in the Caribbean instead of the freezing north Atlantic.

Anyway. You get the picture.

But instead of worrying over my ship suddenly turning belly up in the middle of the night, because I apparently watch way too much SyFy (best channel ever), really, all I can think about is how my boat kind of resembles a massive alien mothership. Up and down the sides, it's got all of these tiny portholes – like hundreds of them – and next to three funky, ball-shaped things that I guess are for navigation, there's this bad ass looking boomerang shaped bridge made out of glass at the very top. I decide that all of those little orange and white boats aren't lifeboats, but instead are alien baby ships. And in that way, they're sort of cute.

Somewhere to my right, someone suddenly asks, "Your name, Miss?"

Okay, no lie, next to Sean Connery's, it's probably the sexiest voice I've ever heard in my entire life. The "r" sounds like a bedroom purr and the "Miss" is more like "Meez".

And being that I haven't had male… _companionship_… in almost a year, and even longer since it's been _good_, I am essentially Pavlov's dog and instantly jerk away from the mothership and her babies, fully expecting to find some variety of male super model.

Hopefully one in a tiny speedo that leaves absolutely nothing to my imagination.

Super model? At somewhere north of six-two, with meticulously styled and gelled coal-black hair, bright, baby blue eyes, a golden tan to die for, and cheekbones cut straight from granite… _almost_. This guy is definitely pretty. Too pretty. Like way out of my league but I'd still like to think about hitting that pretty.

But speedo? Alas, no.

Instead, my almost-super model with the sexy-ass accent is in a uniform. Well, honestly, uniform is maybe a touch generous. The white button-up shirt is fine, and since we _are_ talking about boats and shit, so is the cap with its little black bill and gold anchor. But the white shorty-shorts and big white tennis shoes… um, no. Really, no man should ever wear those, not even Mr. Pretty.

"Hello, Miss…?" he says again, smiling beatifically with every bit of his too-pretty, exotic face. My heart gives a flip, and I _almost_ forget about those godawful shorts. "Your name?"

"Swan," I mutter, as I try to read the gold lettering on his nametag. The only thing I can make out is the white, blue, and red embroidered flag beneath it. "Bella. I mean, Isabella Swan."

"Excellent! I'm Alec and I'm the Entertainment Director!" he replies way too enthusiastically, pointing at himself like I don't know that in using the pronoun, _I_, he means himself. He skims down a long clipboard. "I see you're in… Ah! You're in the Suite 407, Riviera Deck! Vonderful room!"

I kind of want to giggle at the vonderful room. But I don't because that might be rude. Plus, I don't recall anything about a suite. In fact, even though it's been over a year since this cruise was booked, I distinctly remember something more along the lines of an inside cabin or maybe one with a porthole. Suite sounds way expensive. Again, I purposefully tune out Alice's singsong reminders of just how stupid I was.

"Okay…"

Before I really have a chance to ask about the room mix up, Alec's perfectly shaped brow furrows. "But… where is Mr… Jacob," – he says it like, _Yakov_ – "Black?"

"Jerk-face asshole couldn't make it," I blurt before I can think, turning beet red the second the words leave my mouth.

Damn that Alice!

Alec glances up from his clipboard, studying me like I'm some kind of alien, never mind he's the one living on the mothership. Those ice-blue eyes are way too energetic, and okay, maybe just a bit unsettling.

"You do the cruise alone?" he asks, rolling that "r" in "cruise" for all its worth and drawing out that last word way too long. Something about his tone makes me want to run far, far away, and I don't even know why, other than I'm suddenly seeing this image of some dude in knight's armor throwing down a gauntlet and another one picking it up with a knowing smirk.

"Right." I grimace and shift self-consciously, banging my knee on the side of my suitcase. "Thanks for the reminder."

He nods, his pitch-black coif amazingly not moving an inch, and grins even wider. "But it's good, yes? We have the singles events!"

All the blood in my face falls straight to my ankles, and the sweat that instantly dots my forehead has absolutely nothing to do with the sweltering heat of southern Florida.

Oh, _God._

Kill me now.

When my jaw drops in silent protest, Alec winks (prettily) and then, with an excited little clap that tells me that _Yakov_ would have a better chance of hitting that than me, he halfway yells, "No worries! You will have marvelous time on ship! We find you the boyfriend!"


	3. PLAZA II

**PLAZA II**

My room is the shit. That is all.

But no, really, while it took a short forever to finally receive my boarding card/keycard and navigate the decks and halls to get to my room, not to mention my rapid duck and run from Entertainment Director Alec, it's a relief to find out that my suite is seriously awesome. Especially compared to the tiny hamster cages I peeked into while walking down the long ass hall.

_Holy damn_, they're small.

Decorated in what I can only call Caribbean chic (tasteful, yet with bold yellows, reds, and blues and a slightly nautical theme), the bedroom is decently large (for a ship), even sporting a queen-sized bed. Okay, really, it's just two twins shoved together with some kind of special bridging thing that covers the crack and makes them sleep like a queen, but since it's just me, that's a-okay. I can still sleep sprawled out and diagonal, just like I do at home, and that's all that matters.

See, I don't share so well.

Anyway, to the right, there's an honest-to-goodness walk-in closet, and then beyond, a separate living room, complete with a pint-sized matching couch, a desk, a mini fridge, and a flatscreen that's bigger than the one I have at home. And thank God, when I nervously crack open the slim wooden door in the left-hand corner, I see that I also have a for real bathroom – one with an actual bath_tub!_ – instead of one of those closet-sized bathrooms with an itty-bitty shower stall like all of the other rooms (hamster cages) seem to have.

As an aside, I seriously have _no_ idea how women shave their legs in those things. Or how they bathe at all, for that matter. I guess you just stand there under the water, suck in, and try your damnedest to keep the shower curtain from sticking to your ass. Cause that's kind of gross.

I'm not really sure how long I spend walking around, investigating, opening the various drawers and cabinets, and discovering all the specialized hooks, nooks, and crannies – essentially, just marveling at the ingenuity of whoever designed this place. Pretty much anything I'd ever want is here, I notice. It's just been squeezed and packed together in less than half the area that I'd have taken to do it. In a way, it reminds me of those little studio apartment displays they have at Ikea – you know, the ones where they manage to cram a two thousand square foot house and all its accessories into less than five hundred using the magic of Swedish furniture design and storage.

Needless to say, I'm impressed. And maybe even a bit giddy because like a lot of people, I'm oddly fascinated by miniaturized stuff and secret compartments.

A few minutes later, after finally pausing my exploration long enough to deposit my carry-on, which, judging by the indention on the top of my shoulder, weighs at least thirty pounds, my eyes land on a bright spot of color. Apparently, suites warrant flowers. Cause there's a huge bouquet of yellow and orange blooms – fresh and fragrant and very _ooh la la_ – sitting on the table by the TV, right next to… a complimentary bottle of red wine.

_Score!_

Flowers forgotten, I open the bottle and begin guzzling… _immediately_.

Because see, while my room is cool as hell, frankly, I'm still in shock over the whole concept of cruising solo.

And yes, I'm totally drinking straight from the bottle. Don't judge. You would be, too, if you'd had my kind of year and my kind of day.

Besides, whatever brand of booze this is, it's _good_. A touch fruity and a bit dry, but not too dry in that snotty wine connoisseur way that most normal people just pretend to like. In fact, it's so good that if I'm not careful, I'll wind up drinking the whole thing before we even pull away from the dock.

Then again, I'm on vacation, so… so what?

Bottle in hand, exhausted from both stress and travel, I plop down onto my little blue sofa and lean my head back against the cushion. Finally still, it's quiet in my room, despite the muffled banging going on outside in the hallway (more arriving passengers, the banging likely a result of them not fitting their gigantor-sized suitcases into their itty bitty hamster cages). And when I breathe in, over the fragrance of my deliciously fermented grapes, I smell _salt_ – like salt water, like the _beach_.

And I _love_ it.

My lips turn up into an involuntary smile, because for whatever reason, that scent makes my body go slack and makes my muscles instantly unravel. And in a moment of clarity, I realize that this is the first time I've relaxed in… _months_. My neck and shoulders actually ache, not because of my luggage (okay, maybe a little), but because it's been weeks since I let them slump at all.

Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

I mean, I can always just hide from Entertainment Director Alec and relax in here.

Cause, oh, yeah, there's one more bit of awesomeness about my room that I forgot to mention.

Thanks to that jerk-face asshole, I _so_ have a balcony.


	4. FIESTA

**FIESTA**

So somewhere around seven-thirty, I realize that maybe my plan of staying in my room for the entire trip might not work out after all.

Why?

I want to eat.

That bottle of wine (yes, the whole bottle) made my mind happy, but my stomach? Not so much. Judging by the impolite grumbles in my gut, I venture that I could possibly eat a horse, or at least a Shetland pony, which isn't _that_ unreasonable. See, in my scrambling to get to the plane last night and then in the rushed trip from the airport to the cruise terminal, I somehow forgot to eat. Didn't eat _on_ the plane either. Then again, that wasn't really an option since all the airlines are pretty much assholes when it comes to food nowadays anyway.

But either way, starving here.

If you're wondering, yes, I have some snacks – more complimentary goodies! – but right now, I'm wanting more than cashews and weird gourmet-flavored pretzels. Sure, there's the buffet, but frankly (and maybe this makes me sound snobby but whatever), I'm not sold on the whole concept of trough-style dining. Plus, I don't know where it is.

Now, sure, there's also room service, but (I'm just full of buts, aren't I?), there are two problems with that course of action. One, room service is expensive, and I don't really feel like unnecessarily shelling out more than I've apparently already paid (thanks, jerk-face asshole). And two, even if I wanted to order, it's going to be a while before it makes its way here.

So reluctantly, all the while plotting the ways and paths in which I can avoid ED Alec, as I'm now calling him in my head (and yes, that ED is totally intentional and perhaps juvenile), I throw on one of the multitude of "smart casual" skirt and top ensembles I blindly shoved into my suitcase in my last minute packing frenzy. With a cursory fluff of my hair, swipe of lipstick, and quick brush of mascara, I deem myself at least presentable. And after a quick consultation with the map beside my door, with maybe a little more bounce in my step than I'd have guessed possible (_perhaps_ due to my lingering wine buzz), I make my way back up the long ass hall, concentrating on just staying upright in my heels.

Why? Because the ship is listing a little (a lot) more than I'd anticipated, so it takes some real conscious effort and maybe more balance and grace than I possess to move _with_ the side-to-side motion.

Fine, truth is, I wind up just ricocheting off the walls like I'm in some giant pinball machine. Whatever.

Thankfully, somewhere mid-ship (or at least I think that's what you call it), I finally locate a bank of pretty glass elevators that overlooks a fancy, multi-floored lobby-like area. I take the first one I come to down to Deck 5, as per my trusty door map, and as I descend into the belly of the ship, in a way, I kind of wish that I'd explored the ship itself this afternoon. This is all new to me, and, well, more than just a touch overwhelming.

Circling the lobby-like area, there are all of these small shops – jewelry, clothing, cigars, sundries – just about anything you'd ever need. And of course, there are at least four or five bar areas, too, all of which I mentally tag for later. At the bottom, right in the middle of the lobby, there's some guy in a tuxedo playing a huge, glossy black piano. I think it's some ballad from _Les Mis_, but my knowledge of Broadway tunes isn't really that great, okay.

Either way, _everything_ – all the way from the swirly stone-tile floors to the rich wooden banisters to the thick fabrics in dark reds and golds to the massive crystal chandelier hanging from the painted dome ceiling – it's just… _nice. _Like four-star hotel nice.

Granted, it'd be even nicer if there weren't so many people.

Not kidding, there is a metric _fuckton_ of people on this boat. I clearly had _no_ idea.

Continuing on with my mental cataloguing, judging by the various shades of peppered gray and "no way is that natural blonde", the vast majority of the boat's inhabitants are a solid twenty to thirty to forty (maybe fifty) years older than my thirty-two. Yes, there's a handful of people closer to my age, most of whom seem to be attached. There are even a couple of small children running around.

_Great._

Not to go off on some random tangent, but how they aren't in school, I honestly have no idea. The leftover kid in me is insanely jealous of that, by the way. Charlie and Renee never, _ever _let me skip for vacation. My parents were obviously assholes who cared way too much about stupid things like grades and reading and getting into college. Which, I guess, worked out okay. But still.

Before I forget, there's one other thing all of these people have in common.

They're all drinking.

Not kidding, _e__veryone_ has something in their hand – martini, beer, wine, cocktail, scotch, you name it. And frankly, well, that's also kind of nice because now I don't feel bad at all about downing that (whole) bottle of wine. It seems that cruising with a buzz is simply the thing to do.

Works for me!

After a long moment of observation, somehow I manage to weave through the throngs of slightly swaying people and find my way to the dining room. Like the lobby/atrium/whatever it's called, it's a grand affair with dimmed lights, candle-lit centerpieces, and enough silverware at each place sitting to outfit a dozen boats. Part of me wants to just look around. Well, _maybe_ it's the same part that's making my stomach somersault over eating by myself. You know, since that's _always_ such an uncomfortably awesome experience…

As luck would have it, however, I don't really have time to think about any of that because, again, I'm starving, and, too, as soon as I give my name to the slick, dark-suited man standing at the podium, another guy, this one in a crisp white jacket and black bowtie, whisks me away.

Like ED Alec, white jacket guy – Stefan from Romania, according to his nametag – has an accent out of a wet dream. He's also insanely good looking – tall, dark, and European – and the entire trek through the tables, he's grinning and waving and yammering about how tonight's dinner is going to be "just marvelous".

If it tastes half as good as he looks, I'll be fine.

But seriously, people, the eye candy on this boat's staff is just superb. Seriously superb. We're talking Grade A material.

Yeah, go ahead, call me shallow. I don't care. We're talking a year, remember? So shoot me for looking and lusting.

We finally stop in the very back corner, and it takes me a moment to process the scene in front of me. Where I'd expected a small table for one, hopefully by a window, in a corner, and maybe behind a curtain, instead I'm being motioned toward a linen-covered chair on the right side of a big round table set up for… _eight_. And it's half-full already.

_Great. _

"Your table, Miss!" Stefan exclaims, as he simultaneously pulls out my chair.

I quickly decide that my insanely attractive attendant must also possess some variety of magical powers. Even though butterflies are exploding in my stomach, I sit without a hint of protest and smile my best fake smile as Stefan drapes a dark, wine-colored napkin across my lap with the grace and flourish of a toreador.

"Hello, there! I'm Esme Cullen," an older woman immediately says from my left, offering a slim, perfectly manicured hand in greeting.

I glance up, still maintaining my plastered on smile and find one of the most elegant women I've ever seen. In my life.

Soft caramel hair pulled up into a twist, subtle, understated make-up, and wearing what I'm thinking is an authentic cream-white Chanel suit, complete with matching pearl bobs in her ears and around her throat, this woman looks like something out of one of my grandma's old _Elegant Living_ magazines. I'm guessing sixty, but honestly, this lady could pass for forty-five. I want to ask her who does her work because her face is incredible.

I don't, however, because I do possess at least a few manners.

"Hi, Mrs. Cullen." I try my best to not gawk at the freaking _rock_ on her left hand. "I'm Bella. Bella Swan." Like 007, but not.

"Bella!" She pauses like she's tasting my name, and then rushes through a burst of introductions. "So glad you're joining us! You must call me Esme. Mrs. Cullen is my… _delightful_… mother-in-law." She winks at me and I have to bite my lip. "This is my husband, Carlisle."

Esme gestures beside her to a stately blond man whose only sign of age are the spots of ash at his temples, and… _holy wow_. In the face, Carlisle Cullen might as well be Paul Newman reborn. And just like his wife, he drips a kind of WASPy sophistication that you typically only see in magazines or in Ralph Lauren ads. When he offers his own welcome, revealing just a whisper of a British accent, I'm not surprised at all.

Of course. Why not? No one speaks plain, boring "American" here anyway!

"And this is my son, Emmett." Emmett's a dark-haired bear of a man with twinkly, amused eyes and an easy, infectious smile that makes my smile not so fake. He's the perfect blend of his very attractive mother and father, just… football-sized. He's roughly my age, too, so that's a plus.

"And his lovely wife, Rosalie…" who in her clearly designer black cocktail dress looks every bit the part of the quintessential ice queen: long, blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, refined, statuesque, and curvaceous in all the right places. In other words, _flawless_. Yeah, and for me, her polar opposite – dark hair and eyes, a smidge over 5'4", slim, and with a B-cup max – she's _intimidating_, too. When Rosalie smiles and I see just a hint of a gap between her two front teeth, as petty as it sounds, I want to heave a sigh of relief that I'm not sitting beside Aphrodite incarnate after all.

"Good to meet you, Bella," she says with a wink, and I'm stunned because I think she actually means it.

I hide my surprise behind my glass of water. "Same here."

"Oh! And just in time," Esme goes on. "Here's Garrett and his wife, Kate." Another elegant fifty-something couple appears and sits diagonal from me. Like the Cullens, both are wearing easy, genuine-seeming smiles, and even though I don't know them from Adam, I can't help but instantly like them.

Over the next few minutes, we say our hellos and how are yous, and once the Cullens and their friends begin their own rounds of greetings, I pretend to glance down at my menu, silently ticking off all of their names and committing them to memory so that I don't commit some appalling social faux pas.

Like mistakenly call Emmett some other terribly outdated or old fashioned name.

Like… I don't know, _Edward_ or something.

But seriously, three couples.

And me.

_Awesome._

"So you're all related?" I ask over the top of my menu, making an attempt at small talk. I'm not a hermit, okay. I _do_ know how to socialize when needed.

"No, but we might as well be," Kate answers with a mischievous snicker before snapping a straw-thin breadstick in half and popping it in her mouth. "Garrett went to school with Carlisle… At Oxford." The way she presses the back of her hand to her forehead, pretending to swoon, makes the whole table laugh, me included.

"Oh, come on now! I didn't hear you complaining! You liked England!" Garrett argues with faux indignation. "And I'm not that old! Carl was posting then. _He's_ the old one!" He laughs and gives me sparkly-eyed wink that were I fifteen years older might make me seriously squirm. As is, I just blush like an idiot.

And as heat climbs my cheeks, first off, I thank God that this room is as dim as it is. Secondly, I can't help but wonder at what kind of boat I'm on.

Is this like the attractive people only cruise?

Because young, old, staff and guests, there's nothing but 8's and over as far as I can see.

And that's not even counting the flat out 10 coming our way, hands in his pockets, unhurriedly meandering through the tables like he owns the place.


	5. PROMENADE

**PROMENADE**

Staring between painted white rails, I see that the sun is slowly sinking below the horizon. So low, the angle makes the shallow, aqua water all around the boat look more like a field of dark, sparkling sapphires than anything else. Coupled with the pink and orange sky, it's seriously beautiful. Later, when the moon rises and casts its pale yellow glow, believe it or not, it'll be even more spectacular.

I know this first hand since I spent most of last night out here on my balcony, slouched in my lounger with a thin blanket around my shoulders, just staring out across the black water and breathing in the fresh, salty air.

For now, though, despite the darkening sky, it's still electric blanket warm, so I hang out here a little longer in my two-piece, soaking up those last few rays and flipping through some random magazine I grabbed from the one of the tables in the atrium.

In other words, I'm trying my damnedest to relax.

But like yesterday's useless and freaking lonnnng day at sea, last night out here, and then today's abbreviated stop at one of the cruise line's private islands (which I opted to not go to once I realized that to get out there I'd have to ride on one of the little orange and white baby alien boats), I'm failing fairly miserably. Really... all I seem to be able to think about that first night's dinner.

See, as it turns out, that 10 that came strolling up to our table was one _Edward_ Cullen.

Yes, and before you ask, his name really is _Edward, _an incredibly outdated name but one he wears like a champ.

And guess what?

_Exactly_.

Because I have the best luck… ever, he just happens to be the Cullens' eldest son and just happens to be a scant two years older than me. And like me, I learned, he's essentially traveling solo because Esme and Carlisle are celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary this week and apparently that somehow warranted a vacation for the whole family.

I huff, blowing a string of salty hair away from my mouth. I suppose that I should also mention that as chicken-shit as it makes me sound, Edward Cullen is also the reason I avoided dinner last night.

Okay, and why I'm seriously contemplating skipping tonight, too.

You might be asking yourself _why_ the hell would I choose to subsist on cashews and pretzels (okay, fine, or the buffet/germ trough on Deck 15) when I could be having filet and quail and delicious Cherries Jubilee?

Easy.

Because Edward Cullen has a pair of scorching emerald green eyes that a) do funny things to my insides, and b) didn't leave _me_ all dinner long.

Saying little beyond a soft, cursory hello, how are you, and I'm sorry for being late, for whatever reason, he just… _looked_ at me.

Like _stared_.

The whole freaking time, too.

From the moment he sat down until the second I stood to leave, every. single. time I peeked up from the various courses (I think there were five, but for all I know, it could have been anywhere from two to twelve), either to field some random question from Esme or Rosalie, or to politely laugh at whatever silliness Carlisle and Garrett were bantering over, he was _right there_ with his lips turned up in the faintest hint of a smile, nonchalantly leaning back in his chair and watching me from across the table.

And making no bones about it either.

And I have no clue why!

Like _none_, and after two days of ridiculously obsessive reflection, the best I can come up with is that maybe I had something gross in my teeth. Or maybe my mascara was clumpy. That shit always distracts me, so maybe Edward Cullen is just a higher form of a makeup fetishist.

Who knows!

But speaking of makeup… blush? _God_, who needs it when you've got _him_ staring at you. I swear my cheeks didn't cool until sometime after midnight.

I sigh and chuck my magazine to the side so that I can stand up and look out over the railing.

As an aside, I've learned that if I slide my foot between the rails and lift up on my toes, I'm just tall enough to fold myself in half across the top bar so that I can look down. One of the coolest things (ever) is watching the way our ship cuts through the water. It literally slices through it and in the process kicks up feet-high sprays of foamy surf.

It's actually a little (read: a lot) rougher out here today, I realize. It's a lot windier and choppier, and the waves seem much taller, coming up just shy of the bottom-most open deck. I wonder if there's a storm brewing somewhere in the distance. I probably should have at least flipped on the Weather Channel before I left Seattle. But whatever. It's fitting, right? Storm in my soul, storm on the horizon. Never mind. I never said I wasn't lame.

Aggravated that I can't seem to _not_ think of _him_ no matter the context, I push more flying ribbons of hair away from my face and scowl at the horde of seagulls (which, by the way, are the ocean equivalent of rats) circling our boat.

I mean, I _am_ female, you know? And I'll argue that it was pretty much… _impossible _to not notice Edward. Not just his weird staring, but just… _him_.

Because _holy fuck_, he has the whole package.

And that's so not just a year of celibacy talking either. He's like total spank bank material. Where his brother, Emmett, looks like linebacker, Edward is tall (at least 6'2"), but lean and clearly cut beneath those casual khaki pants and navy blazer. He has a distance runner's body, both in physique and in the graceful ease of motion that only comes when you really know your body and its capabilities. Or maybe he's a swimmer. That would fit, too.

_Ugh_, speedo. Yes, please.

Either way, between that body, the near-hypnotic gaze, the symmetrical, masculine face with just a hint of weekend stubble, and the mess of bedraggled, I don't give a shit what you think, coppery-brown hair that he wears better than anyone I've ever met in real life, truthfully, I don't know how to handle Edward Cullen.

Jake was one thing, but this guy?

Yeah… no. Out of my league.

I really, _really_ need to stop thinking.

Before I can start undressing him in my mind (again), a sudden knock on my cabin door thankfully pulls me out of my idiotic abstraction. It's a quick, utilitarian rap that tells me it's likely my cabin steward with the extra towels I asked for, so I pull on my comfy robe and scurry inside to the door.

Oh, would it be Jane, my short, slightly trollish steward (it was admittedly a relief to discover that there are indeed normal people on this boat, too)! But alas, my luck could _never_ be so good.

The second I swing open the door, I'm greeted with a loud, excited, "Meez Swan!"

Between the volume and the unexpected appearance at my door, my heart skips a couple of beats. Surprise quickly gives way to amusement, however, because today, instead of his white button up and cap, ED Alec is sporting this bizarre Hawaiian (or maybe South American) shirt. It's red with green leaves and yellow flowers, and there's even a cawing toucan positioned over his left pec. It's absolutely… _terrible_ and to make it all somehow worse, he's still got on those awful white shorty-shorts and tennis shoes. Poor guy.

"You remember me, yes? I am Alec!"

"I do," I say, nodding and biting my lip to keep from laughing. As much as this guy unsettles me (more so, that dockside declaration that's now blazing through my brain), it's impossible to not love the way he points at his chest and he just _announces_ himself. I half expect him to break into song and dance. Plus, let's be honest here, never mind the awful attire, Alec's just too pretty to not smile at. Although now, instead wanting to jump him, I kind of want to pet him like he's a super cute excited puppy.

"You did not attend the dinner last night!"

I did not realize that I had a spy on this ship.

"Tired," I hedge, shuffling and tugging on my robe in nervous response. I don't trust him.

One hand on his hip, he chuffs and his bright blue eyes narrow into disbelieving slits. "Rrrreally?" In addition to being the best "r" roller ever, ED Alec must be psychic.

"Ah…" I cough. "_Yes_."

"Then you will be at the dinner this evening, yes?"

"Um… I don't know?" My nose scrunches because stupidly expensive room service is actually looking pretty good about now. "Why?" Damn my squeaking voice to hell.

He waves his hands and laughs, and despite the fact that I _know_ he's up to something, and that something can't be good, I want to laugh, too. "Because, my dearest _Bella-Bella_, tonight is first night of the singles dancing! After the dinner, you will be coming to the Sky Lounge at eleven." It's a statement, not an invitation.

My jaw drops in mimicry of our first conversation. "Um…"

Knowing he's caught me off guard, ED Alec's grin widens as he bobs his head and snaps his pretty little fingers. "But of course, you will! If no, I will find you out!"


	6. EMERALD I

**EMERALD I**

Fear of both the buffet line and ED Alec eventually wins the battle over dinner.

"There you are! We missed you last night!"

As I slowly ease myself into the chair beside her, Esme Cullen smiles a sweet, warm – almost motherly – smile, which is welcoming, if a little strange for me. Strange, because she's _nothing_ like my mother. See, my mother considers tie-dye and mood rings to be legitimate fashion choices for all ages, and okay, maybe in her artsy (hippie) little community in Arizona, that's probably true. But like the first night (and very unlike my mother), Esme is dressed to the nines in head to toe Chanel, only instead of cream-white, tonight it's gray with pale pink pinstripes. She's even changed out to matching pale pink pearls.

Is she even real? I want to ask. Again, God, I'd _kill_ to look like her when I'm her age.

"Didn't we, Edward?" she says before taking a delicate sip of her white wine.

As if electrocuted, gracelessly, I jerk to my left just in time to see the object of my last two days' worth of obsession pulling out the chair beside mine.

"We did," Edward replies, wearing the sexiest lopsided grin I've ever seen. Ever. Holy shit on a stick. "Glad you're back."

Oh, fuck me twice.

Never mind what I said on my balcony about not being able to handle him, right now I totally mean that: _Fuck me twice_.

Or thrice.

Seriously. Because right now, staring at him while he's staring at me and grinning like _that_ (for whatever reason he's doing it), it's not just some exclamatory phrase. It's more like a request. Or a plea.

I think I manage to say something back, but truth be known, my head is nothing but white noise, so that's a big, fat maybe. Half of me is all tingly because he's right freaking _there,_ and in nothing more than a white, untucked button-up and a black suit jacket (sans the tie), he's looking better than any man on God's green earth has a right to.

The other half of me, though… well, that half is very, _very_ confused.

This isn't quite the same Edward Cullen I met two nights ago.

"I didn't see you on shore today."

Small talk? Really?

I am completely and utterly baffled, but _okay… _I can go with this._  
_

I shake my head, both in answer and to clear it before attempting a response, where I simply say, "No, I decided to sleep late." Yeah, that's a lie, but whatever. He doesn't need to know about my afternoon of silly adult-style daydreaming, nor my somewhat anti-social tendencies.

Hey, if you had to deal with asshole criminals (and worse, their defense attorneys) all day like I do, you'd be a little anti-social too.

Without warning, Edward reaches across the table for a bottle of red – something very French from the labeling – and not even asking, fills my glass. One brow lifts, and there's a certain twinkle in his eye that makes my knees knock. "Late night?"

Being that he's still holding the bottle, I'm borderline mesmerized by his hands. Surgeon's hands, I like to call them – long, slender fingers, short, neat nails, and oh, so masculine, but not meaty or gross. The kind of hands that can accomplish truly magical feats, if you get where I'm going.

_Unf._

I throw up a quick prayer, thanking God that I'm sitting.

Combating the flurry of nerves as well as my own idiocy, I laugh his question off with another shake of my head. "Still decompressing, I guess." I take a drink of the wine he's just poured, searching for something else to fixate on, and my God, I want to _moan_. "Wow, that's… _really_ good. Thanks."

Something shifts in Edward's expression. It's slight, a kind of loosening of muscles that I hadn't even realized were tense, but I still catch it. It makes the grin he's not let slip seem more… _natural_. Like he seriously does mean it. He tops off my glass and then pours one of his own. "You know, it's actually not a bad beach they've set up. I was surprised."

"You went onshore?" I find myself asking, since, of course, I just _had_ to miss shirtless Edward. Probably a good thing, I silently correct, trying to not picture him half naked.

I fail.

No, definitely a good thing I didn't go onshore. I'd have gone up in smoke. Or done something super embarrassing like faceplant in a sand dune. Yeah, let's be real, likely both.

Before he can answer, hot and magic Stefan arrives and begins running through the litany of dinner choices. Tonight's options are: beef Wellington, garlic steamed mussels, Cornish hens, and some kind of sautéed aubergine medley. I want to raise my hand and say, "Um, one of each, please?" Cause I have to admit, in addition to the superb selection of eye candy, the food on this boat is out of this world. Per my waiter's suggestion (he'd know, right?), I wind up with the mussels. Edward, along with every other guy at the table, the beef. Typical.

As soon as Stefan takes his leave, Edward turns right back to me and immediately launches into answering my earlier question. I'm surprised (and impressed) he even remembered what I'd asked.

"Yeah, I did go out for a little while," he says, but then he makes a face worthy of a Sour Patch Kid. "Too many people, though."

I really want to laugh. That scrunched up face is so at odds with the smooth, urbane persona I'd pegged him for. "I'd guess so," I reply, biting the inside of my cheek. "You know, big boat, small island, and all that."

Even though it's not really funny, he _does_ laugh, and of course, like everything else, Edward has a _great_ laugh, too. Not too loud, but low and manly and confident – the kind that you want to hear in your bed when you're playing around with someone you really like being with. As silly and maybe petty as it sounds, I'm _relieved_. Hyena laughs make me cringe. Jake had this awful, high-pitched chortling, hyena-style laugh, and I wanted to strangle him every time he opened his mouth.

"Yeah, pretty much. It was fairly windy out and the current was stronger than usual, which isn't surprising considering that storm to our east, but there's an old single engine crash right off the leeward side that made it worth it. Tons of coral. Fish everywhere."

See, now _that_ piques my interest, momentarily distracting me from the wonderland of Edward's face and laugh and surgeon hands.

"You scuba dive?" No way can I hide the excitement in my voice because I've always, always, _always_ wanted to try that. I'm ninety-nine point nine percent sure that Edward senses my enthusiasm, too. His eyes do that twinkling thing again and in the process make everyone else at the table, who'd I'd been at least vaguely aware of, vanish.

"Sometimes, yeah."

I grin.

He grins.

This is absurd.

"But here in the Caribbean, or at least the islands we're going to, you don't really have to…" Judging by how fast he's suddenly speaking, I think he's excited, too, and that somehow compounds my excitement. "I mean, it's still better because you can dive down and see more – like anemones, bottom fish, and all that. But for the most part, it's shallow enough and the water is clear enough here that you can get by with just a mask and fins."

"Seriously?" I am _so_ trying this at our next stop. Wherever that is. Whenever it is. Tomorrow, I think. I make a mental note to check tonight's edition of those daily schedule things Jane leaves – the ones I've pretty much been ignoring.

"Definitely. Makes it a lot easier. No need to be certified, no boat charters, and not nearly as much gear to haul around."

I'm a bit breathless when I admit, "I've never done that."

"Really?" Edward's teeth chew his bottom lip, which is just so not fair. Now I have images of me chewing his bottom lip. Or him chewing mine. Damn him to hell.

"Really." I shake my head a little too quickly for the conversation we're having. I play it off with what I hope is a nonchalant shrug, but let's be real here, _nonchalant_, _Edward_, and _I_ don't really belong in the same sentence. "Not much of that kind of thing in Seattle."

A weird hush falls over the table before Rosalie suddenly blurts, breaking right through our little bubble, "You live in Seattle?" Her model-worthy brows are almost in her hairline and she's sporting what looks like some strange cross between an incredulous gape and a smirk.

"Um, yes?" Glancing around the table, I notice that everyone is looking at me like I have two heads.

Emmett lets out a laugh (more like a guffaw). He starts to say, "Well… now isn't tha– " but stops with a loud, _Mmph!_ when Rosalie elbows his ribs. "Come on! I wasn't going to give hi– _Mmph! _Damn it, woman, fine!"

"Ignore him. It's a stupid sports thing," Edward intervenes, rolling his eyes like his entire family is insane and he's the only normal one. But I don't miss the split second glare he shoots his brother. Nor do I miss the hint of pink around his collar. "You need to try it sometime. Diving, I mean," he goes on. "You swim, right?"

Thoroughly confused, a little suspicious, but more than willing to continue our conversation rather than returning to the first night's weird staring, I leave it at a short affirmative bob of my head.

By the way, regarding his question, while I may not be the most graceful on land, I'm a _great_ swimmer. Or I was at least. But then again, years of jumping off cliffs and battling the northern Pacific currents will do that for you. I spit a quick, silent curse at Jake for taking that away from me, too. Jerk-face asshole.

From out of nowhere, hot and magic Stefan reappears, somehow managing eight plates of appetizers at once. And they're almost too pretty to eat.

_Almost._

Like that first night, dinner then turns into this long, drawn out event of sorts. Unlike that night, however, tonight is… fun. A lot of fun. Going through at least three bottles of wine, a few dozen stories, and another long talk about colorful fish and the advantages/disadvantages of scuba versus snorkeling, we make our way through the various courses (it _is _five, by the way – six if you count the tangy sorbet palate cleanser). By the time Stefan pours the port and serves the flambéed banana thing, it's been a solid two and a half hours. When I look around, I see that we're one of the last tables still lingering.

Which reminds me…

Reluctantly, not really wanting to get up at all, I sigh, begin to wish everyone a good night, and force myself to stand.

Edward stands with me. "Where are you headed off to?" For a second, I'm speechless because he's doing that weird staring thing again – like _really_ staring at me as though we're the only two people in the room. It's unnerving.

And… um, something else.

I swallow _hard_ when I notice that his focal point is somewhere south of my face.

Actually, no, it's not focused. It's roaming, sliding up and down, from my face all the way down to my almost-too-high heels, which I honestly shouldn't have worn since the ship is really rocking tonight (or maybe that's the wine). Regardless, the air in my lungs turns to lead, and my whole body blushes at his blatant appraisal.

_Right. _

See, it just so happens that I'm in one of my shorter (shortest) dresses tonight. It's a little royal blue number that Alice insisted I buy last summer. The clingy fabric fits like a freaking glove, miraculously giving me curves I don't really have, and the almost too high hemline makes my short, stumpy legs look amazing.

Cause see, per ED Alec's order, I'm supposed to go _dancing_.

Specifically singles dancing.

Hence the dress. It was obviously a good choice.

But either way, I'd forgotten about that whole singles thing, so me being me, I fidget under the scrutiny. "I think…" I make some random nervous hand gesture, halfway pointing up, halfway to the door. "I think I'm going to… check out the Sky Lounge."

Taking me completely by surprise, Edward suddenly barks a laugh, throwing back his head like it's the best thing he's ever heard. There are little crinkles in the corners of his eyes. But since it's him, well, even that's hot. Like really hot. So much so that I nearly miss the, "Oh, God, he got to you, too, huh?" that he says between laughs.

With a wince, I go from warm pink to downright crimson.

Between the cheeks and the dress, I'm like a walking, talking American flag.

"Unfortunately."

And okay, while I don't really want to admit this, still beyond reeling from pretty much… this whole trip, I'm actually kind of relieved that I'm not ED Alec's only victim. This dangerous (possibly-probably tipsy) part of me is also thinking (read: hoping) that maybe, just maybe, Edward's reaction means I won't have to go to this godawful singles thing alone.

In fact, I'd kind of – no, _definitely _– really like it if a certain scorching hot, emerald-eyed thirty-something went, too.

Still eying me up and down in a way that makes me squirm in both really good and really bad ways, Edward abruptly flashes me an enigmatic, closed-lipped smile and then offers me his arm, crooking it at the elbow in put-on formality. "Well, then, Ms. Swan, shall we face the firing squad together?"


	7. EMERALD II

**EMERALD II**

ED Alec wasn't shitting me.

Sky Lounge is a regular floating nightclub, complete with head-jarring music, spinning strobes, spotlights, and glow in the dark beverages. And while it's not what I'd call crowded tonight, there are definitely more people here than I expected. Since I don't recognize a single face, though, I wonder where they're all hiding during the day. Maybe in their rooms like me. Or maybe they're busy playing all those rounds of Bingo I keep hearing about.

As an aside, not kidding, Bingo is apparently a big sport on boats. They have at least twenty rounds of it throughout the day, and from what I overheard while waiting out in front of the dining room this evening, people play multiple cards at once. Last time I played was with Grandma Swan when I was seven. We played for Teddy Grahams. I'm told these people, especially those cane-carrying blue hairs, play for blood.

"Want to?" Edward yells over the deafening wail of a guitar.

His dinner jacket is now draped over a chair somewhere, leaving him in just a pair of black pants and that simple, white untucked oxford. At some point on the way up here, he unbuttoned an extra button at the top, revealing a too-tempting patch of hair, and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. Somehow, and don't ask me how, he makes what would be slouchy on any other man in this room look amazing. His hair is more disheveled than usual, too, probably from all the times he's swiped his fingers through it.

Every time I catch him, _my_ fingers itch because they also want to… um, _touch_.

When Edward repeats himself, I realize that I've been staring like an idiot. Shrugging as though I weren't actually dying inside, I knock back the rest of the frozen, neon concoction I picked up on the way in, take the hand he offers, trying to not squeal out loud when his fingers give mine a little squeeze, and let him lead me out onto the dance floor.

Would you have said no?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

Over a year, remember?

The song that's playing is one that I don't know, and any other time, in any other place, I'd be terrified by the prospect of shaking my ass and waving my arms in the middle of a room full of strangers. But see, alcohol is awesome for things like this, and between dinner and now, I've had enough that I could probably dance to anything the DJ wants to spin.

Seriously, bring it, DJ Stingray. I got your twerk right here.

By the way, no, I'm not drunk. I'm just very… _lubricated_, as Alice likes to say.

Almost on cue, as soon as Edward turns around to face me, the driving thump from the speakers slows down, turning into something very, _very_ different than what I'd anticipated moving to. The song that starts playing has this slow, heavy, erotic beat that sounds _vaguely_ familiar. Maybe I heard it in the car. Or in some movie. But really, who cares…

Why?

Because before I can even suck in a preparatory breath, Edward's hands suddenly skim down my sides, from my ribs to my waist. His fingers frame and grip my hips in an _extremely_ proprietary way… and my mind flat out blanks.

"This okay?" he asks.

Strike that. Edward _murmurs_ it.

And it's sexy as fuck.

I don't think I've ever experienced someone _murmuring_ in my ear, but that's the only way to describe it. His lips are close enough that my skin registers the warmth of his breath. More turned on by that low, seductive voice and that one, simple little almost-touch than I've been in… _forever_, a small shudder slides through my limbs, and every single hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.

How I'm not bursting into flames, in all honesty, I have no idea. But thanking God (again) for fortitude in a bottle, I nod and drag my arms around his neck, letting him pull me closer… and closer... and closer, until there's not an inch separating us and we're moving in a slow, rhythmic, very touchy bump and grind that I haven't attempted since college.

Not kidding here, I am a veritable mess of sensation.

Thinking?

_Pfft_, that's for the birds. I'll do that tomorrow. Instead, relaxing into his embrace, I let go a little, taking whatever he wants to give me (for whatever reason he wants to give it because I've still not figured that first night out), and all I do for the next four minutes and twenty-five seconds is _feel._

The damp heat of his body through the thin, soft cotton of his dress shirt.

The hard, sinewy, rolling muscles under my palms and fitted tight against me.

The slight glint of sweat off his skin.

The scent of sweet, expensive, masculine cologne that I just want to _bathe_ in.

The flash of dark, emerald green under the pulsing strobe.

The tightening of his grip on my hips.

The _un_-subtle grind and search for friction.

The soft, wet brush of Edward's lips below my jaw and down my neck.

The gentle sucking that turns to more when he focuses his efforts at the base of my throat.

"This okay?" he asks between kisses.

Oh, _God_.

My breath and my _yes!_ comes out in harsh punches of air, timed to the slow, pounding rhythm, and low in my abdomen, the muscles there contract and tingle. I close my eyes and let my fingers walk across his shoulders, feeling all of those delicious, flexing lines and ridges, before finally threading them through the messy, dark coppery hair at his nape.

There's another warm, wet press of his lips against my throat, followed by something wetter and hotter, and then the slight scrape of teeth. Biting back a moan, my fingers tighten in his hair and tug. He does it again, a little more tongue, a little more teeth, almost like he knows I'm holding back and he's wanting to break me.

And no lie, that base, hedonistic side of me that I rarely, if _ever_, let out to play just wants to freaking climb him.

And strip him.

And _fuck_ him.

Now.

Regardless of the consequences.

In all honesty, it's bizarre and a little (a lot) scary just how badly I want this guy. How willing – how _eager_ – I am to throw myself at this person who I don't even really know at all. That's just not how I operate. I'm careful. I'm cautious. I don't _do_ one-night stands. I use my brain.

Speaking of, I don't know where it went off to.

But there's one thing I _do_ know, however. It's _never_ been like this. Not even close, not even once in all the years I spent with Jake, and that's definitely not the booze talking.

No, I've _never_ felt this kind of pull before – physical, chemical, electrical, _astral_, you name it – and it takes every bit of what self-control I have left to not hike my skirt up and wrap my legs around his waist here and now.

Although… I have to say, unless my judgment isn't _completely _off, considering the way Edward is looking at me as he slides his hands from my hips lower, pulls me in even closer, and grinds against me, I have the (very) distinct impression that he might not mind it if I did.

In fact, I bet he'd be all for that.

In other words, he's hard as a freaking rock.


	8. DOLPHIN

**DOLPHIN**

"Damn it!" I mutter, chucking my pillow at what I think is the direction of the door. It makes it maybe halfway and lands with a soft thump. Pillows aren't very aerodynamic anyway. "Shut up!"

There's a brief second of blessed silence before another round of those blasted beeps starts up again. I can literally _feel _each one in my teeth, and I swear to God they go on forever (okay, maybe four seconds).

Finally, _finally_, they stop, but only to be replaced by a deep, authoritative male voice that freaking blares over the ship's intercom. While loud enough to wake the dead, the closed door muffles the words themselves, so I'm not really sure what this loudmouth is saying. In a way, he kind of sounds like the adults in the _Peanuts_ cartoons.

"Wah… wah-wuh-wah…"

Just louder.

"Shut up! Oh, my God, shut up, you son of a whore!" I yell at the door.

Don't side-eye me. So I'm not a happy person in the morning. It's not my fault that I need a minimum of two point five cups of coffee to be even remotely polite.

When I lift my face from the mattress, the room spins for a second. My head's throbbing, too, and that's never fun to wake up to. It's no wonder that the only words I know how to say right now are unpleasant.

Plus, I really, really _hate_ this guy because he's _still_ talking. And I'm _this_ close to picking up the phone and calling the ship's concierge all diva-style. I just want to ask what kind of asshole makes announcements at… I squint at the alarm clock by the bed… eight in the morning?! Aggravated, because he just keeps on going and going like that stupid Energizer bunny, I decide the best recourse is to plug my ears, hide under the covers, and sleep another two hours.

With a huff, I grab the sheet and flip to my side, stopping short when I roll into something… _warm_.

And hard.

And currently occupying the other half of my bed.

Intercom asshole forgotten and instantly awake, my eyes shoot wide. Right about the time my heart stops and my breath catches in my throat, a low, familiar voice, thick with sleep, mumbles, "Morning."

Have you ever ridden one of those roller coasters that slowly climbs and climbs and climbs, inching its way up to the top of some stupidly high steel mountain, where it pauses at the top, leaving you suspended in the air and utterly exposed, before it suddenly, without warning, just… _falls, _taking with it your lunch?

Yeah, this is… the _exact _same thing.

Slowly, reluctantly, not wanting to believe what my eyes are seeing, I look up a long path of beautifully carved muscle and pale peach skin, only to find Edward Cullen on his back, his hand casually resting beneath his head, and with one eye squeezed shut against the brightness of the early morning sun coming in through the open curtains.

Oh, and he's naked.

In my bed.

_Fuck me. _

Never mind. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_ expletive. Hopefully not appropriate.

It takes me a moment to find my voice. Really, I only find it when Edward's lips twist up into a wicked smirk. I groan from the nearly crippling instant mortification and dread. "_Shit_… Did I throw up on you?"

Smooth, right?

See, over the years, I've learned to always lead potentially traumatic conversations with the most telling and most important questions, and what's better than asking the outrageously hot guy you maybe/possibly/probably slept with whether or not you defiled him with barf?

_Exactly. _

It can only go one of two ways from there.

That smirk turns into a full-fledged beaming grin and his eyes, if a touch tired, dance with emerald-shaded amusement. "Not that I remember," he finally says. Only after I poke him in the ribs.

"Wait, did you throw up on me?" I grimace. Cause that's only slightly better than me vomiting on him. Or not at all. I hear some people are actually into that shit. Um, _gross. _

Edward laughs so hard that it shakes the whole bed. "Nope." Did he seriously just pop the "p" on that? "I don't think there was any vomiting from either of us," he adds when I scowl at him. He's still laughing, though, and it reminds me.

When was it that I'd thought something about Edward laughing in bed? Oh, that's right. It was last night at dinner. Apparently, I was right about that. And how do I know this? Because _clearly_, I'm a floozy – Grandma's word, not mine (although it _does_ sound a little better than saying drunken ho right?).

Buying time, I reach up to wipe the sleep from my eyes but I stop when I notice that my arms are covered in soft, white fabric. I almost groan again when I smell the lingering cologne. Really, really good cologne that I'd recognize anywhere. "Why am I wearing your shirt?"

Because apparently, _everything_ is funny, his lips twitch. "I think it was a little chilly up top."

I'm somehow both relieved and disappointed (floozy, remember?) when I look down and see that underneath his shirt, I'm still in my blue dress. It's wrinkled and while the hem has ridden up past propriety, at least it's still there. Though, I have to admit, it's very tempting to ask why I'm his shirt instead of his jacket, but after a second of consideration, I hold my tongue on that one because I'm not sure I really want to know.

In fact, I really don't.

There's no good answer there.

But the longer I'm awake and the more we talk, the clearer things become. Sort of.

While I don't remember everything… or even most things, it's not _quite_ as bad as I'd feared. In other words, last night isn't a _complete_ blank slate. It's more of a fuzzy _mural _of sorts with a few… missing spots. Granted, they're possibly (probably) important missing spots, but yeah...

Dancing. We did a lot of that, I remember.

A lot of touching during the dancing, too.

Okay, a lot of touching, period.

And somewhere in there, I know that Edward and I both had at least a couple of those glow in the dark neon drinks.

Maybe it was more than a couple.

As an aside, _holy shit_, those things are lethal. They go down like Kool-Aid but hit like straight tequila. Oh, and then they proceed to make you willingly participate in bizarre, embarrassing rituals like the Conga and doing the limbo to the peppy, salsa beat of Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine.

I wince. Yeah… we did that.

Oh, and I also remember ED Alec being there at the club, still dressed in his godawful Hawaiian shirt and shorty-shorts, bobbing his head and snapping his fingers. That pretty little bastard was damned near preening when we congoed past him on our way out the door, Edward's hands, of course, firmly planted on my sashaying floozy-hips.

I frown then, because things get a little _blurry_ after Sky Lounge…

Likely a result of all those neon drinks kicking in. Whatever.

But at some point, I know that we were on the top deck because I distinctly remember looking out across the water while sitting in one of the loungers, my back to Edward's chest. And I do remember it being a fairly choppy and a little windy (maybe a lot).

And I remember how Edward was space heater warm wrapped all around me like he was.

And I remember how _solid_ he felt.

And how insanely good he smelled.

And how his fingers kept making these little random patterns across my forearms.

Oh, right… and his mouth.

His sinfully decadent mouth doing sinfully decadent things to mine…

The same sinfully decadent mouth I'm staring at right now. _Yeah_, I definitely remember_ that_ mouth. Well enough that my belly clenches just thinking about it.

Shit.

"Um, we didn't… you know, did we?" My face feels like it's on fire, but this is one of those things that even though I am (and have been for the last… fifteen-plus years) on birth control, it's just better to find out sooner rather than later, regardless of the embarrassment. Considering my lack of recent action, I'm clean, I know, but a man who looks like that?

Please, God, at least say we used a condom.

I think this question must have surprised my probable lover, though. Cause Edward makes this half-choking, half-laughing strangled kind of noise and then he coughs like he's buying time. His cheeks pinken, too, but where I look all splotchy like I've been running a marathon when I blush, he just looks cute. Like young, high school boy caught kissing his girlfriend behind the gym cute.

How someone goes from being the sexiest man alive to being _cute_, I don't know. You'd think he'd be one or the other, right?

"Ah… _no_."

My lungs deflate in instant relief/disappointment. "Do you really remember or are you just saying that?"

Something in my expression makes him laugh. "I'm sure."

Something in _his_ expression makes _me_ cringe. "Did we do _anything_ stupid?"

Tapping his chin with one long finger, lips pursed in contemplation, Edward makes a show of thinking, and I can't decide if I want to kiss him or if I want to punch him for purposefully drawing out my torture. I settle for needling his ribs again until he gives me what I want.

"Fine," he laughs (more like, he _giggles_), twisting away from my prodding finger, which honestly makes me a little melty since most guys don't tickle well. Most guys – okay, at least jerk-face asshole – play all stoic because they think tickling isn't manly. "Okay, already!" He grabs both of my hands when I swap to a two-pronged attack. "If you don't count our Celine Dion rendition at the bow around 2., then, no, we were perfect little passengers."

Horrified, I still. "We did not!"

When he nods, smiling like the cat that ate the canary, I try to pull away, but he's having none of that and tugs me bodily onto his chest. "Don't be embarrassed. You were fine, I promise. We had fun… Or I did at least."

Edward isn't the most comfortable of mattresses, and being draped across a half-naked (correcting my earlier assumption, he's still in his dress pants) man I don't really know _should_ bother the shit out of me, but I find that I don't care at all. Defying the laws of the universe and dating in general, it feels… natural. Comfortable even, despite the light throbbing still going on behind my eyes.

Resting my chin on his sternum, I decide to swap gears and ask, "So did you hear what that guy was saying?"

"What guy?" His forehead folds in confusion.

What?! How did he not hear that asshole? "The asshole on the intercom."

"You mean the captain?"

"Whoever he is." I roll my eyes and without thinking, run my fingertips through the same patch of wiry chest hair that I'd eyed last night. It's a shade darker than the hair on his head, but in the light, I can still tell that it's not exactly brown. I wonder if he was a straight up ginger when he was little.

I'm uncertain if it's intentional or not, but Edward mimics my exploration by curling a strand of my hair around his forefinger and lifting it up to the sunlight. "I couldn't hear it all," he says, as he turns my hair over, looking at it from a different angle. "_Someone_ was yelling obscenities."

I pop him for that, but he just laughs at me. He does that _a lot_, I notice, and frankly, I don't know whether I should be flattered or offended that he finds me so damned amusing. "Seriously, what'd he say?"

"I think I caught something about that tropical storm somewhere east of us. It looks like it's turned and heading in the direction they didn't expect, which explains all the wind. Sounded like today's port is cancelled so they can try to get out of the path of the wind and waves."

_Tropical storm?! _

Okay, I really, _really _should have turned on the Weather Channel.

My nose scrunches. "Which port was that again?"

The look Edward gives me is priceless. "How do you not know this?!"

I shrug, which is actually pretty hard to do when you're draped on top of someone, and then briefly explain just how last minute this trip was for me.

I do _not_ tell him about the phantom tarantulas. I have enough problems as is (like almost sleeping with strangers on boats, for example).

From the way Edward still eyes me, incredulous and maybe even a little affronted, I gather he's more of the planning type. You and me both, Bub. Shaking his head, but seemingly satisfied enough with my excuses, he finally answers my question, "Today was going to be St. Maarten, which is a really nice island, by the way. It's kind of a shame we're having to skip."

Remembering our dinner conversation and my mask and fins plans, I sulk a little. "Are the fish good there?"

Quick even in the morning and hungover, Edward catches my meaning immediately and this kid-like elation takes over his whole face. Okay, and he's utterly _adorable_, and I instantly conclude that I really, _really_ do like that he's a little bit of a dork when it comes to all things marine life. It makes him so much more… human or attainable. Or something.

"Not the best, but not bad… There are some good spots." He pauses for a second and when he takes a deeper than usual breath, his chest rises beneath me, lifting me slightly and making me teeter. "But… how about you just wait on the snorkeling, okay? Just… let me see if I can arrange something to Andros when we hit the Bahamas. That is, if we get to go at all with this storm and all. And, of course, that's if you want to… you, know, go with me."

I have no idea where or what Andros is or even what he means, but there's some subtext in that little statement that I don't miss. It makes me beam right back. "_Okay. _" I try to not show just how giddy I am by glancing down and busying myself with pulling on his chest hair.

A second later, Edward's chest collapses in what I can only describe as relief, taking me right along with it. I don't know what's up with that little show of nerves, but I don't ask because men usually don't really like to talk about things like that… Even still, that the nerves were there makes _my_ stomach do really pleasant things.

As silly as it sounds, it reminds me of those little fluttery thrills I used to get when I was in high school and talking to a cute boy. But I play it cool by redirecting the conversation, which is something I've always done well. I'm the capital A in avoidance. "So… what happens when they do this kind of thing – skipping a port, I mean?"

Now, it's Edward's turn to frown. "Usually they just plan a bunch of horrible group activities."

I frown right back. "Let me guess, Bingo?" It comes out kind of like a curse.

Still making that adorably sour face, Edward nods. "And shuffleboard down on Deck 6. Old men love that shit, you know. Shitty cigars, bottom shelf bourbon, and shuffleboard. There will probably be an extra art auction or two, as well."

"_Awesome_." No way to hide the sarcasm there. Or the rolling eyes. "I've _always_ wanted a velvet painting of a martini glass."

Edward does that bed-shaking laugh of his again, but this time I'm right there with him. "Oh yeah? I'd pegged you to be the Thomas Kincaid sort. I figured you had little mauve and green cottages all over your house back home."

I fake vomit, which isn't too smart considering that my stomach is still more than a little queasy from our late night shenanigans. Edward just laughs. Again.

After a couple of minutes of making fun of the onboard art and a resulting second minor tickling/wrestling match, I reluctantly roll off of Edward's chest. Cause after all the laughing and roughhousing, I have to pee. I don't share that little detail, however. I'm a firm believer that there's something to be said about maintaining one's feminine mystique and all that.

"Pool?" he asks, as I attempt to sit up.

My head does that swimming thing, but I'm thinking that after a shower, an entire medium-sized bottle of aspirin, and maybe eighteen or twenty cups of double-shot expresso, I'll be human again. With a quick shake of my head, I look back and catch that Edward is staring at me in that intense, weird way again, and it reminds me of that very first night's dinner.

I don't get it and I feel like maybe I'm missing something very obvious and maybe even important.

But there's something new in his eyes, too, and I don't quite understand that either.

I'd swear it's apprehension? But that can't be right. Men like Edward do _not_ get nervous.

I am a different story, however, and I'm suddenly distracted by his question and very aware of what "pool" means.

Me in a bikini for one.

_Ugh. _

I'm not dumb, though, because on the other hand, it also means more shirtless Edward, which is a very good thing for me. Provided, of course, that I don't fall on my face or something equally embarrassing because I'm too busy staring at him to notice where I'm walking. Which, let's be honest, could easily happen.

So, Edward's chest?

Now that I'm actually looking at it and not spread across it or battling it out for tickle captain, I decide it might as well have been carved from stone. He's, honest to God, like some textbook example of perfect male musculature – the type where I can see every single pretty little line, hill, and valley. The term six-pack is an insult. No lie, he's working a solid eight-or-more-pack, and there's also these lickable, v-shaped muscles, which probably have some complicated official name but no one knows what it is, that slant together and dip beneath his waistband like an arrow. They must be sentient, too, because they're legit screaming, "Follow me to the treasure!"

Shirtless, wet Edward definitely wins out.

"Okay," I answer a little too quickly. Well, sort of, because I'm not 100% sure if I said it or just mouthed it.

Following my lead, Edward rolls out of bed.

"So," he says, drawing out the long vowel as he shoves his hands into his pockets. The motion pushes his waistband lower on his hips, revealing another inch of that follow-me _V_. With wilder than normal hair, squinty eyes, and barefoot, he's deliciously rumpled, and when he notes me staring, he smirks like an evil bastard. A sexy, evil bastard that I'd kind of like to pounce on. "Are you going to give me my shirt or are you making me do the walk of shame half naked?"

Blushing (again), but laughing when his smirk morphs into a mischievous, boy-like grin, I move to pull his button-up off, but before I even have one arm out, he's already halfway out the door, calling over his shoulder. "What do you want in your coffee?"

"Um, cream?"

Nope, don't even go there.

Edward peeks around the door before pulling it shut, looking all devilish, disheveled, playful, and just _unf_.

"Consider it done." He winks. "Meet you upstairs in thirty."


	9. CARIBE

**CARIBE**

"So why did you decide to go to med school?"

Edward grips the edge of the pool and then kicks his feet up to float. Somehow, he still manages to shrug, which just makes all of those pretty, lean muscles flex in very pretty ways.

Is it bad that I stare at the way his swimming trunks stick to his… _thighs_? I mean, he's right there, so it's really hard not to. And it's not like he can tell anyway. Sunglasses are the best invention… _ever_.

"I don't know," he says after a second, pursing his lips like he's really, legitimately thinking about why he spent so many years in school. "Following my dad's lead, I guess. Same way I ended up at Northwestern."

"Your dad went there?" I frown because I remember something… _right_. "I thought Kate said he went to Oxford? That's where he and Garrett met up."

"He did a post-doc there." Still floating on his back, Edward stretches his arms out and does a sort of horizontal push up off the wall. "For a while, he thought he was going to teach."

I try not to stare too hard, but his little maneuver draws every bit of my attention to the strong, curving lines of his biceps. "But he changed his mind…"

"Yeah, when they came back to Chicago, he taught for a while, but I think he got bored. So he took an opening in surgery at Northwestern Memorial." He does another one of those horizontal push up things. "After I finished undergrad at Dartmouth, it just worked out for me to come back home for med school…" Edward glances my way. "Anyway, why did you go to law school?"

I attempt to copy his pose. I'm a little (a lot) less graceful about it, though, and it takes me a second to rearrange my grip so that I don't drift off somewhere. Like maybe to the bottom.

But honestly, I don't think he minds my flailing and constantly sinking legs.

See, unlike me, Edward isn't wearing sunglasses, so I know exactly what he's looking at. He's not even trying to hide it either.

Holy damn, that look.

It does glorious/awful things to my insides.

As I study him through my dark lenses, I notice that there's something else there, too. It's this certain tightness at the corners of his eyes that says there's more going on in there than I really understand. Whatever it is, it's making my heart beat faster and making it kind of hard to breathe.

"Law school? Berkeley?" he asks again.

Right. It's my turn to answer.

See, we've been playing this game – asking each other questions, answering tit for tat – for a three solid days now, sun up through sunset and dinner. Since they keep canceling our ports due to that nasty tropical storm, appropriately named Alex (close enough), there's really not much else for us to do.

Asshole storm.

Okay, fine, maybe we've not been talking for three _whole_ days. In between these little conversations we've also been kissing and groping like horny little teenagers. For the last seventy-two hours, my body has been, literally, at DEFCON 2. Anything more?

We're talking nuclear fallout.

When Edward raises an eyebrow, reminding me (again) that he's waiting, I mutter (semi-truthfully), "Money."

"Well, at least that's honest." But he's chewing his lip, and I totally heard him snort. A responding giggle pops out before I can stop it.

See, he's killing me a little more each and every minute that we're together. Over the last few days, I've come to learn that beyond being the hottest thing on two legs, Edward is this crazy enigma of a man – an almost irresistible fusion of smooth and urbane and dorky and cute. You never know which side is going to show up next. He's actually a lot of fun.

"Fine," I say, splashing him like I'm five. "Maybe I like seeing asshole criminals go to jail. And… maybe I'm kind of good at putting them there."

By the way, while it's not something I like to talk about, I am actually. Despite my occasional (frequent) social ineptitude and personal insecurities, in all honesty, I'm a pretty fucking good attorney.

I also enjoy making criminals cry.

Because they're assholes. And they need to cry. Fuckers.

My boss tells me that sometimes I may take it a little too personally, though. Whatever.

"Figures," Edward laughs, splashing me back.

Ignoring his childishness (never mind I started it), I rest my head against the side of the pool, close my eyes, and let my body go slack. Funny enough, the second I do, that whole floating thing actually starts working. After a moment, because his question is still hovering around in my head, I wind up answering a little more seriously. "Nah, I don't know… It just seemed like it'd be exciting. Like maybe I could make a difference somehow and do some good in the world. Too much Law and Order, I guess."

"But do you like it?"

"Sometimes, I love it, especially when I'm able to get someone truly awful off the streets. But sometimes, it's a pain in the ass. Not quite what I'd expected." Turning my head, I squint one eye open and find Edward no longer floating, but standing right beside me. Still looking. One corner of my mouth pulls up automatically. "Do you know have any idea how much paperwork I have to go through?"

_Ugh_. I don't even want to think about what's piling up at home.

Honestly, for reasons I'm sure you can guess by now, despite my earlier reticence and hiding, I'm not really keen on thinking about going home, period. It's been… years… decades, even… since I've had this much fun. And I've _never_ felt… whatever _this_ is before.

So I tamp that shit right back down and I _don't_ think about it. Instead, I decide to just live right now, in the moment, in this pool on this cruise to nowhere with this insanely hot man who keeps looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth looking at and making me think that he wants me just as much as I want him.

"Tell me about it," he says, thankfully unaware of my crazy meanderings. His eyes do this boggling thing for emphasis. "God, _do_ I know. I think half of my life is filling out forms. You know that's why our handwriting always sucks, right? It's premature arthritis from all the documentation and shit."

Laughing at his own cheesy joke, Edward rakes his fingers through his wet hair, mussing it without thought (and of course, slinging water everywhere), and in the process, I finally figure out how he gets it to look like he just rolled out of bed. He probably just _rolls out of bed_. Literally. I'd bet my paycheck on it. Hell, I'd bet he doesn't even own a comb.

When he wipes his face, for whatever reason, I suddenly remember what he told me yesterday about being the newest guy at his hospital. New people, experienced or not, always get the shit jobs, and that's a fact anywhere. _Trust me_. "So how long will you have to work the ER?"

"Maybe another year." Edward shrugs again. "But I don't really mind it."

I wrinkle my nose because I've heard way too many stories. From the way Jasper talks, that's pretty much the worst job you can have in a hospital. Like the ninth circle of hell some nights, like a circus others, and never what you'd call relaxing. And I guess Jasper should know since he's been doing shifts for two and a half years now.

Some of the stories he tells Alice, which she then tells me, make me weep for the future.

Seriously, Harborview's ER is like a bright, shiny beacon for Seattle's Darwin Award candidates.

"Really, it's not that bad."

I give him a look, to which he just rolls his eyes. "I mean, yeah, the hours suck sometimes, especially when I was doing my residency at Memorial, but some days it can be pretty exciting. Except for the routine crap like stitching up fingers. That gets old."

A weird sense of déjà vu washes over me and forces me to say, "My best friend's husband says the _exact_ same thing."

"Yeah?" Now _he's_ the one giving _me_ a look. Not the same as my look. Actually, I have no idea what his look is. Curiosity maybe, but not _quite_.

Ignoring said look, but not really, I explain, waving my hands around like an idiot, "Yeah, he _hates_ sewing people up. Especially kids since they always scream the whole time even if he's numbed them up… But he hates the vomiters most of all, though. Seriously. He's always whining about having to buy new shoes. Said he's stopped wearing watches and long-sleeved shirts altogether." I laugh because Jasper is a germ-phobe and a half. "I think it's kind of hilarious since Alice – that's his wife and my best friend since high school – vomits like… _constantly _now."

Nodding, Edward grimaces like he knows all about mucked up tennis shoes and watches and long-sleeved shirts.

"Pregnant?" And now he smiles with whole face, eye crinkles and all, and oh, my fucking swoon.

What planet is he from?!

"_Very._" I smile with _my_ whole face right back. Cause right now, Alice is this cute little roly-poly beach ball with three inch black spikes all around (her hair and her shoes). Don't tell her I said that – the beach ball part, I mean. I'm not sure if she'd hit me or cry. Pregnancy hormones are freaking scary.

"She's one of those lucky women who gets to experience the joy of morning sickness the entire nine months, or the last eight, at least… She's a good sport about it, though. She rates her pukes on a scale of 1 to 10 and tells me _all_ about it. I have to hang up on her half the time or I'd be right there with her."

Edward does this snickering thing that makes his eight-pack abdomen tighten and roll.

What? You think I wouldn't notice?

You try being half naked with him and see if you don't notice every little thing.

"What about you?"

Every single muscle in my entire body instantly locks, and I wind up gulping back a mouthful of water because without even realizing it, that whole floating thing just failed me. When I come up, I sputter and cough like I just drank the entire pool instead of a mere mouthful. I don't even want to think about what I just consumed. Thank God for pool chemicals.

"Are you asking if I'm pregnant?!" I blurt that out _entirely_ too loudly.

Edward laughs – like full on, loud, head back, and hands over his face laughs – until he's the one choking. "No way you're pregnant," he spits between coughs. "Not considering that blue dress the other night… Trust me on that."

I immediately sink below the waterline to cool my face. And hide. And I think to myself that it's a real shame I don't have gills. When I come up thirty seconds later due to my crappy, sit-on-my-ass-office-trained lungs, Edward is still chuckling. He barely manages to ask, "What I meant was, do _you_ have any kids? Or… are you… married?"

Under his breath, I hear what I think is a soft, "_Please say no."_ But then he winces and wrinkles his nose. "Shit, I should have asked that sooner... like maybe the other night. or the day before yesterday. Or yesterday. Or this morning." He winces again. "I guess… I didn't want to know if you were."

He's not the only one. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.

"Um, _no_," is my automatic response because, let's be honest here, for the last year or so the topic of marriage has been a rather sensitive one for me. Jerk-face asshole.

For a second, I hesitate, torn between wanting to leave it at that and wanting to give Edward a little more of me. I swallow and settle on something in between. "I _was_ engaged a while back… but, well, that didn't work out so well."

I guess I give away a little more than I meant to, because in my periphery, I catch his hand coming my way. Before I can blink, Edward's fingers are suddenly on my face. Laughter gone, lust tamped down, his smile, like his voice, is softer, showing me yet another side of him that just makes me want him even more. When his fingertips slide down the line of my jaw to my lips, I want to melt.

"I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not... at all."

What's the phrase? Perfect man is perfect?

I smile back. "It's fine."

Because it _is_ fine.

_Totally_ fine.

While, sure, maybe I'm still a touch bitter and maybe I still refer to my ex-fiancé as the jerk-face asshole that he is, that has _nothing_ to do with wanting Jake back. No way. No how. Definitely not right now.

My lips fight to maintain their serious line when I add, "Jake decided to leave me for his beta."

Edward's brows climb his forehead. "His what?"

"Yeah. It started about a year and a half ago…" I say, acting all nonchalant, spreading my arms out on top of the deck. My lips really twitch now because the one good thing about our breakup is that I get to tell people why it happened.

And I have the best breakup story. _Ever_.

My sunglasses ride low on the bridge of my nose, but that just adds to the image when I deadpan the rest. "Jake decided that he's really the eternal spirit of some wolf who lives up in Canada."

"_What?!"_

"I know, right?" Finally letting my lips fall into a natural grin, I snort and laugh as I picture all of the absolutely ridiculous, fur-tufted outfits my ex used to come home from the "lodge" in. "It's some bizarre mysticism-like religion he picked up after going to some sweat lodge with his dad. Or maybe he made it up to hide his kinky proclivities. Anyway, he's like some kind of wolf shaman guy now."

"You're shitting me."

"No, I swear it! I guess I just turned out to be too normal for him. You know, since I'm not into howling at the moon, eating raw meat, and whatever else he does. He called off the engagement when I, um, caught them – him and his _beta_ – in a _compromising_ position."

Edward's expression shifts to one of absolute hilarious horror, and the fingers that had made their way back to my face freeze in place. "So wait, I don't... he's with… he's banging a _wolf?_ Is that safe? Or even legal?!_"_

At that, I cackle, nearly losing my sunglasses in the process. "No, no, no! Some girl named Leah. She thinks she's a wolf spirit, too, but apparently her Type B personality manifests itself even in her weird fantasies. So she lets him play alpha wolf when they go out and run around naked in the forest. They howl together, chase rabbits, and do whatever else… wolves do. In a messed up way, they're made for each other."

Taking a deep breath, Edward slowly unfreezes. His reaction, though, it's just… perfect. Amusement, horror, confusion, all mingled together… like it should be, considering. The tone of his voice is even better. "That sounds…_ interesting."_

"Yeah, not so much at the time, but Jake wasn't really interested in working for a living either, so it was really for the best. Now, it's just funny. To me anyway."

A few seconds later (basically once he recovers), Edward leans off the side and wades through the water, coming to stand directly in front of me. He takes a step forward, kneeing my half-floating legs apart so that he can stand between them. When his hands sink beneath the water, targeting my waist, without any real conscious thought, I automatically lift my arms to his neck and let him pull me out toward the center of the pool.

"Like I said…" he whispers in my ear, slowly, purposefully brushing his lips across the spot of skin just below it. Edward's long-fingered surgeon's hands slip down to my thighs and guide them around his waist, lifting my weight like it's nothing, which in all fairness is about right. Come on, everyone is buoyant in water, at least somewhat. I forget all about waterborne physics when he kisses the side of my neck and sends a bevy of delicious, gooseflesh-raising shivers down through my limbs. "I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not."

Slowly, we drift around the pool, meandering from one side to the other in some kind of strange watery waltz. Edward's palms are warm and sure, and like the other night at Sky Lounge, they're distinctly proprietary in the way they're flattened against my back, hugging me just a little too tightly for how long we've known each other. Two fingers tuck themselves underneath the elastic of my top and trace my spine, making my thighs squeeze tighter around his waist.

"What about you?" I murmur against his cheek.

Oh, yes, I've learned that I, too, can murmur. And now that I know I can, I like doing it because it makes him jerk a little. Just like when I run my nails across his abdomen.

Like I'm doing right now.

"What about me?" he deflects. But his voice is rougher, and he lowers and slants his mouth to where it's hovering right over mine, _almost _touching. Strike that, _just_ touching in ways that make my whole body heat.

"Kids? A wife in the Hamptons?" I cock a brow. "_Two_ wives in the Hamptons?"

Pulling away, but only enough where he can look at me, Edward makes a silly-girl clucking sound and shakes his head. "None of the above, Ms. Swan. And by the way, only a crazy man would want two wives or girlfriends." He bends down and kisses me quick. "Do you know how much work one is?"

Playfully, I shove at his chest, but his grip might as well be iron. My second brow goes up. "Do _you_ know how much work one _guy_ is?"

"_Touché_." We spin in a quick circle, churning up our own matching little waves. "But no," Edward says after a minute, this time more seriously. "Other than a few random dinners now and then, the last woman I really went out with… I think I was in my third year, but to be honest, even that didn't last long because she got tired of me never being around to take her out. Up until recently, I just haven't had much time to… date."

Frankly, I'm stunned. Like really stunned. I might even be gaping.

How he's remained single is… beyond me. But knowing that Edward isn't some manwhore who fucks all the nurses on his wing makes me beyond elated. It's not like I really thought that or anything… well, okay, maybe in the beginning. But confirmation is… _yeah_.

Nice.

"But you do now? Have time to date..." I'm stupid to even ask, but I can't help myself because I'm clearly stupid over this man.

"I think the answer to that is perfectly obvious," he says, nodding before he leans in to take my mouth all over again.


	10. BAJA

**BAJA**

_Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to today's special edition of Art at Sea! To start us off, we have here the rare chance to own a true masterpiece. Cast in bronze, l'Uomo is one of the finest examples of modern, contemporary realism. Originally crafted as a reminder and gift for his beloved, this work was largely unknown until…_

"Oh, my God... Bella, do you… _see_ it?"

"Holy shit..."

"_Shhh!_ Will you two stop staring at it?! And for God's sake, stop giggling like you're 12."

"Oh, stop it... Like you're not?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I'm not staring… Little B, don't let like my wife fool you- _Mmph!_ Damn it, woman!"

"You deserved that... and slide over, you're squishing me."

"Fine, I don't want to sit next to you anyway... Anyway, like I was saying, I'd never be so crude. _I _am an art _connoisseur_. I'm merely_ studying_ the artwork, thank you very much."

"Oh, come on, Em, that's some bullshit and you know it."

"Is not!"

"Pshht! You wouldn't know a Brâncusi from your own ass, let alone anything this obscure... Hell, you had monster truck posters on your walls all the way through college."

"Shut up, _Eddie_. Mom gave me those."

"Right. Seriously, Bella, just ignore Emmett. I always do."

"Ugh, Rose, baby, can you please stop staring at that statue's cock. I'm getting a complex here."

"But it's so… _hard_."

"And big."

"Seriously? You too? Traitor!"

"I can't help it, _Eddie_. I mean, _look_ at it."

"It's a statue, _Bella_. And as a doctor, I'm telling you it's not proportionate. So don't get any ideas, okay."

"You got that right. I don't think they… come that big."

"Oh, they _come_ all right."

"Rose!"

"What? I'm just saying…"

"That's it, we're leaving. I'm locking you in the cabin until the cruise is over. I don't care how bored you are or how many days we're stuck on this boat."

"Aw, don't pout, Emmy-bear. You know a statue could never replace you. Or your… ahem, _member_."

"Humph!"

"Okay, this officially just got weird."

"By weird, you mean gross. Rosalie, please don't ever talk about my brother's dick in front of me again. Ever."

"Oh, don't be such a prude, _Dr. Cullen_."

"Whatever. It's bad enough that I have to hear you two go at it all night in the cabin next door."

"_Pfft_. It's not like you've actually been in your cabin lately anyway…"

"Rose, baby, hot damn, will you look at that… is that a _blush_ I see? Eddie, Eddie, _Eddie_, what have you been up to?"

"Oh, shut up. And don't you dare say a word, Rosalie-oh, oh, oh, my God, Emmy-bear!–Cullen."

"She calls him Emmy-bear during sex? You're kidding."

"Ye–"

"No, wait, I _really_ don't want to know. Edward, I can't believe I let you talk me into hanging out with them. I'm going back to my room now… to maybe throw up off my balcony."

"God, you two prudes were made for each other. I mean, that's nothing. You wouldn't believe what goes on in the cabin next to ours. Carlisle and Esme are–"

"La-la-la-la-la-la-la!"

"No-no-no-no-no!"

"God, stop being such babies! It's _nice_ that your parents are still active and so… _athletic_ about it."

"Nooo! Edward, shut her up!"

"Hey, you're the one who married her. Why do you think I left town?!"

"But I didn't know she was like this! I was fooled! Fooled I tell you! _Mmph!_ Ow! Why'd you hit me this time?!"

"You deserved it. Don't be a butthole, _butthole_. Unless you want to go sleep in your mom's room and witness those gymnastics first-hand."

"Aw, baby, you know I didn't mean it. You were just being–_Mmph!_ Ow! Okay, fine! Let's go get you another glass of champagne."

"Make it two and you're forgiven."

"Anything for you, baby. We'll be back in a minute. Don't do anything too bad while we're gone, okay?"

"Edward, did your sister-in-law just call your brother a _butthole_? I don't think I've called anyone that since middle school."

"Yeah, Rosalie gets like this when she's had too much to drink. I call it Champagne Regression."

"Just how much has she had?!"

"I think they started just after lunch. They were already pretty plastered when we got here. She'll be hilarious by the time the velvet paintings roll through."

"Right… Hold on, there really are velvet paintings? I don't believe you."

"Are too. And there's always some of your favorite Thomas Kincaid in these things, too. I'm buying you one for your bedroom at home, so be prepared."

"You realize that when you wag your eyebrows it gives you away, right?"

"Does not."

"Does too."

"Well, maybe I just like flirting with you."

"That's what you're calling it?"

"If you'd prefer, I could pull your hair. Or pop your bra."

"What if I'm not wearing one?"

"_Shit_… I'm going to need some proof of that."

"I'll show you proof."

"Oh, please, please do. I look forward to it."

"You're terrible, you know that, right?"

"But you like me."

"Maybe…"

"Maybe, Bella? Maybe? What about when I do this?"

"Wha– _Mmm_…"

"I thought so. You like me a lot."

"Wait, stop that! Not in front of your family!"

"Come on, I'm not doing anything obscene. And it's not like they don't know we've been spending… pretty much every waking minute together."

"But…"

"Plus, they're over at the bar, so they're not even paying attention. Hell, they're both so drunk they can barely stand. Just wait, Em'll probably buy something hideous. He does that when he's bored and drinking."

"You don't know... You're not even looking…"

"Who cares if they are. I can't keep my hands off of you. I don't want to."

"_God_… up a little higher. My shoulders are killing me… And I don't want you to either."

"Don't want me to what?"

"You know."

"No, I don't. I'm going to need you to tell me exactly what you mean."

"_Ugh_… Fine. I don't want you to keep your hands off me."

"So… does that mean I get to see that _proof_… when we're alone?"

"Um… _shit_."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Okay, yes. Can we go… now? I don't think I can handle much more of this."

"Thank God. Your room or mine?"


	11. ALOHA I

**ALOHA I**

As I make my way down the hall, I realize two very, very important things.

First off, any and all prior thoughts/concerns/etc I've voiced about the wave action on this boat are now inconsequential and irrelevant. They're more like a sad joke.

Secondly, while this isn't new news, I thought I'd throw it out there that I, Isabella Swan, possess the worst equilibrium known to man, which beyond causing me half a dozen blushes per day from all the random trips, slips, and falls, now just compounds the issues presented by that first observation above.

Not kidding, as I lose my balance and bounce off the nearest wall (again), I swear it feels like we're running some kind of crab-crazed gauntlet through the Bering Sea in the dead of winter instead of puttering around in the supposedly mild Western Caribbean.

See, according to our asshole captain, who, by the way, continues to cancel our ports via his assholish early morning blasts through the intercom, because our boat can't seem to get out of the way of this storm fast enough, we're now going through gale-force winds with something like 30 ft waves.

Which is something I really, _really _don't want to think about because that means the waves are the height of three-story buildings and that's disturbing on _every_ level imaginable.

For once, I'm actually glad that jerk-face asshole ex of mine liked to spend my money and opted for the stupidly expensive suite instead of something on one of the lower decks. Seeing waves so high that they literally cover your window…

Yeah, no thanks, I'll pass on that.

At least it looks like I'm not the only one having some problems staying upright.

As I follow my usual route from my suite to the dining room, I pass more than a few who look like they've spent some quality time by the toilet. No lie, some of these people are actually green, which, as an aside, until now, I'd always believed to be some kind of myth.

But it's not.

It's really not.

In fact, there's a forty-something lady sitting down on stairs to my left that could pass for the Jolly Green Giant. Or maybe a Martian, which would be more than fitting as I still like to think of this boat as the Mothership.

Just as I turn to start heading her way, Martian lady's pale blue eyes bulge in a sign that I immediately recognize, and instead of doing the nice thing by offering her one of those little paper bags from one of the stands they've placed every few yards, I pick up my pace, bouncing off the walls be damned.

Why? Cause I know exactly what's coming next.

Really, really well.

I'm what some people call an empathetic vomiter. Which, without going into a whole lot of detail, basically means: you barf, I barf. I don't know if it's the sight (ugh), the smell (blech), or the sound (argh), but whatever causes it, it totally sucks. I wasn't kidding when I said that I sometimes I hang up on Alice.

Anyway, because of those aforementioned three-story waves, I'm already teetering on the edge. Seriously, every time we hit a trough, in addition to nearly falling on my ass, my stomach revolts and tries to escape the torture by climbing up my esophagus.

You might ask why I'd even think about dinner.

Good question.

I have no idea.

Well, that's not true, because I do have an idea. We'll just pretend it's something to do with me being strong-willed, or determined to conquer my queasiness, or some other nonsensical crap like that instead of just wanting to spend every waking minute with a certain green-eyed god who won't keep his hands to himself.

Let's just hope I don't hurl on him.

Narrowly evading Martian lady's inevitable barf-a-thon, I enter (stumble into) one of the pretty glass elevators, where thankfully, the ship's motion is momentarily dampened by the downward momentum. It's a brief reprieve, and as I descend, I realize that quite a few people seemed to have skipped tonight.

In a way, it's kind of nice. I've still not gotten over how lovely the ship's décor truly is, and now, without all of that metric fuckton of people milling around, I can really see it, too. In addition to the rich brocades and swirly stone floor, pretty (likely fake) trees and greenery sit in the various corners and line some of the walls, and in them, tiny lights sparkle and shine, making the space somehow magical in the darkened evening light. It's even lovelier coming down from up above.

I wonder if they'd say much if I just rode the elevator up and down for half the night.

Probably not. It's not like there's too many other people who'd need to use it.

A sexy mop of I don't give a fuck hair puts a stop to the debate, however. It's amazing and maybe (probably) pathetic how quickly I exit the elevator.

"Hey you," Edward says the second he sees me.

He's grinning from ear to ear, too, which makes all those pretty sparkling lights seem comparatively mediocre. And because no matter how many times I see him, I can't help myself and I grin right back. Without a second of pause, he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, and despite all the touching and playing we've done over the last few days, my stomach does a cartwheel, a response that, for the first time this evening, has nothing to do with the never-ending rollercoaster ride of the ship.

Also, just so we're all on the same page, like every other night, Edward's positively edible tonight. Seriously, I don't know how he does it, but wearing nothing more than that same black jacket from the other night, black pants, and a pinstriped oxford unbuttoned at the top, he literally looks good enough to eat. I'd lick him (which I know for sure he'd like), but we're in public, and that'd likely be rude, so I settle with just feasting my eyes on the glory that is his… um, face.

Oh, and by the way, I'm not the only one who notices it either.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy ED Alec chatting it up with hot and magic Stefan over by the maître d' stand. For once, he's ditched those godawful white shorty-shorts, too, and is instead rocking a smoking black suit that fits his body like a glove. With that too-pretty, exotic face of his, he looks like some kind of expensive cologne model named Axel. Or Diesel. You know, the ones who can actually throw Blue Steel (Zoolander, duh) and not look like a douche, and in the process make your panties melt off.

When Edward's grin widens, despite their off the charts collective hotness, Alec and Stefan both stop talking. I think I see drool.

I _just _resist the urge to stick my tongue out like I'm 7. But I do toss them a quick grin and a wink. And of course, that preening little bastard, Alec, just claps his pretty little hands, blows me a kiss, and throws his head back in a fit of laughter.

He thinks he's won.

Maybe.

Whatever.

With that, I shake my head and return my attention to the man in front of me. "And hey to you," I say back. But because I'm me, about the time I get to that 'hey', my voice wavers as, right on cue, the floor seems to disappear out from under me. I don't realize that I've squeezed my eyes shut until they're open again.

I throw up a quick prayer that I'm not as green as Martian lady.

"You okay?"

Damn it.

A pair of very shrewd, very green eyes studies me like I'm a favorite puzzle to solve until I'm forced to reply with a very articulate, "Um…"

When I fail to say anything more, Edward's hand drops mine, only to immediately slip around to the small of my back, where it then splays out in a protective, supportive move like he thinks I'm going to collapse or something. In all honesty, I don't mind the help at all. As much as I'd like to say otherwise, there's a very possible chance that I will collapse if this ship doesn't stop rocking. Seriously. And I especially don't mind it when his fingers sneak underneath the hem of my top to find bare skin. As his forefinger begins to trace tiny, soothing circles over my spine, without realizing it, my muscles relax a little and my lungs (finally) suck in a deep breath of air.

_God_. He smells as good as he looks.

Please don't let me puke on him.

I bet that'd wreck whatever magic we seem to be conjuring.

And _damn_, it's some _good _magic, too.

"Come on, what's wrong?" Edward asks again. Grin gone, he looks genuinely concerned, which, between you and me, makes my heart flutter a little. Despite the usual pleasantness of the sensation, it isn't what I need at the moment.

Nope. Not at all.

Not when I don't trust my stomach to not attempt another escape.

So I (smartly) keep my mouth shut.

But what's that Borg expression?

Resistance is futile.

Or something along those lines.

Ever persistent, without turning me loose, Edward's opposite forefinger finds my chin, tilting my face up even more. About the same time, the boat decides to do that dropping thing again, which makes me audibly swallow. A poorly concealed smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"Let me guess…" One brow lifts. "Feeling a little queasy?"

I nod.

Quickly, too.

"Well, it's not just you." He shrugs and I'm momentarily distracted from my churning gut by the movement of his jacket across his shoulders. Yeah, yeah, whatever. I know what's _under_ that jacket. "Actually, we're the only ones from the table here tonight."

I make a close-lipped noise that I think sounds inquisitive.

"Yeah, Mom's been sick all day. She finally bit the bullet and took a sleeping pill around four. She said sorry she'd miss you tonight, by the way." His smile turns warm. "Kate's been out like a light since lunch. And I guess since their better halves aren't around, Dad and Garrett are up at one of the bars watching cricket and downing a few pints of Guinness."

When my forehead crumples, Edward rolls his eyes. "Sometimes they like to pretend they're still back at Oxford, only neither has the stamina for it anymore. It's pretty sad."

In terms of consistency, Guinness is the equivalent of a milkshake. A _beer _milkshake, which is something I really, really don't want to contemplate, so I make another question-noise, hoping he'll move on.

"Em? Oh, God, he's got his head in a toilet somewhere." Like a typical brother, Edward laughs at the poor man. There's a little snort in there that's pretty much adorable in its dorkiness, though, and I'm struck (enamored) all over again by the dichotomy of his smooth/hot and sweet/cute personality. "He's never been good on water. He's just barely been hanging on with his OTC Dramamine patches." Edward laughs again, harder, and shakes his head. "You know, I offered to write him something stronger before we left, but the idiot would rather lose his lunch than admit defeat to me, I guess." His nose wrinkles. "Rose probably has her hands full about now."

I'm distracted for a moment.

Because what was that he just said?

Dramamine patches?

It comes in_ patches?!_

Color me intrigued.

No, strike that. Color me desperate.

I wonder if the ship's store has some of those. I also wonder just how many of these things you're allowed to wear at once. I may need a whole box.

My lips part without permission, but instead of asking about these fascinating bits of anti-nausea ingenuity, somehow, I wind up peeping a barely-audible, "You?"

The tiny, soothing circles on my spine slow and widen, as does Edward's smile. "Never been seasick a day in my life. Probably due to all the sailing we do on the Lake."

Because, _of course_, they _sail_.

What was it I said about Carlisle belonging in a Ralph Lauren ad?

I guess it's more like Nautica.

And apparently it's both of them.

I can see it, too – some sleek mahogany-colored boat leaning into a turn, that sexy-ass grinning face of his tanned from the sun, water spraying in the background…

I bet Edward even has an off-white turtleneck sweater.

_Unf. _

"But you on the other hand…" he goes on, oblivious to my nautical daydreaming. "We're skipping dinner. I think I need to take you back to your room instead."

I shake my head and squeak what I hope he takes as a, "No, I'm fine."

"No, you're _not_. Trust me, I know these things." Edward taps that gorgeous noggin, and those shrewd eyes of his twinkle. "Plus, I _like_ playing doctor."


	12. ALOHA II

**Posting this early since I likely won't be able to tomorrow. See you on Friday!**

* * *

**ALOHA II**

"Try turning sideways."

I peek at Edward over the top of my newly acquired glass of ginger ale, which, as an aside, I haven't had in _years_. In fact, the last time I had real ginger ale was in some random truck stop that mom and I stopped at on one of her cross-country antique/junk adventure-scavenges. Sounds exciting, huh? It was actually… but you try being fourteen and spending six weeks in a Winnebago with an unabashed hippie. My mom puts Sheryl Crow and her weird toilet paper square rationing in the shade.

"Just try it?"

I blink and take another sip of my delicious, anti-hurling nectar. "What?"

"Lay sideways across the bed."

When I continue to dumbly stare at him over my glass, Edward flashes me an indulgent grin and chucks his jacket over the back of my little blue mini couch. Having no idea whatsoever how sexy it is (but I sure do, even in my kill-me-now, nauseated state), he then makes quick work of his sleeves, rolling them up to his elbows. It reminds me of the way surgeons on TV prep before the big event.

Which reminds me… I wonder what he looks like in scrubs.

_Yum. _

Once he's finished, he nudges my shoulder. "Scoot."

Like I'm going to say no.

Deadly plague be damned.

I do as he says, sliding gracelessly to the other side of the bed while trying my best to not spill my soda. See, however slight, it's given me the only relief I've had since lunch when the boat started doing what felt like legit back flips.

So, yeah, I'm pretty eager to keep it _in_ my body, not _on_ it.

As I start to wiggle down into the pillows to get comfy again, Edward stops me, however, because apparently, my relocation is only temporary. Without another word, he hops in beside me, takes my glass full of awesome (which earns him a disgruntled noise or three), takes my pillow, places it on his lap, and motions for me to lay down.

I think about arguing for all of about… zero seconds.

"And why am I doing this?" I ask this because I have to at least _pretend_ to care why. Given the poorly disguised smirk he's sporting, I think my enthusiasm in repositioning probably gives me away, but, hey, he's the one who put the pillow on his lap. Not me. He's also the one who hopped into bed with me.

"Some people handle heel to toe motion better than they do side to side," he explains as I lay back and settle in. "This'll put you parallel to the wave direction." I must make a pretty ugly face at that because another grin splits his cheeks. "Just try. Maybe it'll help. Maybe not." Edward's grin softens into something that makes me warm all over. Even more so when I feel his fingers start to gently thread through my hair. "If not, we'll try something else, okay?"

"What if I throw up on you?"

Yeah, yeah, I know. Very romantic, but I think I've already explained my position on asking the important questions first.

One brow climbs clear to his hairline and I can tell he's about to laugh at me. Being the sometimes smart ass that he is, he opts for sarcasm instead. "No, not vomit! I've never seen that before…" Hands flailing in the air, he rolls his eyes like I missed something obvious. "Bella, do you have any idea how many people have thrown up on me?"

If Jasper's experience is any reasonable basis, it's probably in the hundreds. I'd likely die if I had to do his job.

Anyway, I don't actually tell Edward this, but between you and me, I think it might be a little different when the person puking on you isn't your patient in the hospital but is instead the person you've been making out/playing/almost having sex/whatever it is we're going with for the last… how many days?

7? 9? 40?

I forget now.

Seriously, with all these impromptu days at sea, it's a little like being in the movie Groundhog Day.

But, you know, on a boat.

And with ridiculous art auctions.

And juggling acts.

And horrible/hilarious poolside karaoke.

And Bingo.

Holy fuck, the Bingo.

"You know you don't have to do all this, right?" I tell him. I'm probably making another ugly face, because with every sweet, gentle act Edward does, I can't help but compare and contrast with how the other man (or wolf, I guess) in my life used to handle me being sick. And when I say handle, I mean Jake didn't. At all. Ever.

It's like I've found the Anti-Jake.

And he's... _yeah_.

"I don't have to what?" Now Edward is the one making the ugly face, only his ugly face isn't ugly at all. It's cute, and for some reason I get the impression that he's a little annoyed that I'd let him off the hook. "Spend time with an intelligent, beautiful woman in her bed? Are you kidding me?"

And... my blush is likely the color of lava. Which, of course, he notices, and his shoulders immediately start shaking.

I never realized I was this funny. I should be a comedienne. I could be like Tina Fey. But more awkward. And not as funny.

Okay, maybe I better stick to lawyering.

"Seriously, it's fine." Edward stops only long enough to place a cool, damp washcloth across my forehead. Where the hell that came from, I have no idea, but like my ginger ale, it's _wonderful.  
_

Who knew plain old, wet cotton possessed magical healing powers?! How did I not know this?

Edward hesitates then, but after a second, his fingers resume their gentle combing. Softer, looking down at me with a quiet, not unpleasant intensity that I've come to recognize as his more serious side slipping through, he adds, "Actually, there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

Oh. My. Swoon.

Yeah, he's _definitely_ the Anti-Jake.

And if he's not careful, I may just fall in love with him.

And that's in addition to wanting to bang his brains out.

Saying nothing more, for the next few minutes, we take turns staring at each other like the besotted fools that we are. No lie, it's a little unnerving how close we've gotten in such a short period of time, but as Edward refolds and replaces the washcloth on my forehead, I honestly can't bring myself to care.

He's everything I've ever wanted, plus all the stuff I didn't even realize I needed.

_May_ fall in love?

_Ugh._

I fear it might be too late.

Okay... that sounded way, way, _way_ more lame than it did in my head. And maybe a little (read: a lot) psychotic.

I'm just going to blame the ginger ale.

The ship fortunately (and unfortunately) does another one of those awful rolls and breaks into my moment of silly romantic abstraction. My stomach, being the sensitive little bitch that it is, revolts, _of course_, but it doesn't climb _quite_ as high up my esophagus. And as I process this new development, I think that Edward may be on to something with his heel to toe thing.

Or wait…

"How long does it usually take for that little pill you gave me to work?"

Little crinkles appear in the corners of Edward's eyes, which tells me he's about _this_ close to laughing at me. Again. "It hasn't had time to kick in yet, if that's what you're asking."

By the way, yet another advantage to semi-sorta-dating a doctor.

He's got pills.

And he knows how to use them (cue some ZZ Top).

In a move all too reminiscent of the first time we were in this bed, Edward coils a strand of my hair around his forefinger and lifts it up to the lamplight. "Just give it 30 minutes or so. By then, I think you'll notice a difference."

My lips mash into a hard, flat line and I attempt to roll my eyes. It's not very effective from my position, however. I think it just makes me look deranged, which is perfectly fitting considering my ridiculously sappy comments from a few moments ago.

"What if I don't make it 30 minutes?"

Letting my hair go, only to coil it again, he smiles at my petulance. "You will... But what can I do to make you feel better in the meantime?"

Talk about a loaded question...

No less than thirty responses sit on the tip of my tongue, all of which have no place in polite company, and all of which involve me finally getting a little relief. Edward knows it, too. Boy, does he. For a split second, his eyes do that sexy, mischievous twinkling thing again, and my insides immediately start squirming.

But, because my luck is the best ever, he and I both know that I'm in no shape to do anything impolite or relieving at the moment.

Damn this tropical storm to hell.

So I settle for a frown and something a little tamer than thirty variations of naked gymnastics. "Distract me. Tell me something about you I don't know."

"Like what?"

Not really expecting him to bite so easily, I have to think a minute before finally coming up with the ever mundane, "Favorite color?"

"Seriously?"

"Why not?" I do my best Spock brow.

"Alright…" Holding his hands up in defeat, Edward shakes his head, probably at my lameness. But then, after only a second of consideration, his lips part and his eyes kind of glaze over. He finally mutters a quiet, but firm, "Blue."

Now it's my turn to shake my head (not a good idea) because I have to give him some shit for that. "You're such a guy," I tell him. Having no idea what I'm talking about, Edward stares down at me wearing the best blank, what the hell expression I've ever seen. It makes me laugh for the first time since my digestive tract decided to commit mutiny. "Come on, do you know how vague _blue_ is?"

"Fine." Making a chuffing kind of noise, Edward rakes his hand through his hair, making it go every possible direction. "_Royal_ blue."

My Spock brow hits the roof then, and when I peek up to study his face, there's a certain tenseness to his features that surprises me a little. It's familiar because I've seen it more than a few times over the past several days, but there's something more to it tonight. It's like he's waiting for me to judge him or something equally absurd. His lips squish together as his eyes unconsciously flit over to my closet door, and I abruptly realize _exactly_ which _royal blue_ he means.

I _don't _give him shit for that.

Nope. Not. At. All.

Cause now I just want to kiss him. A lot. All over, too.

Which, again, I can't really do at the moment. But I do make a mental note to wear that dress again. Like tomorrow.

Features still tense, Edward turns my question right back. "So what's yours?"

Incapable of looking away from the damned near hypnotic way his eyes bore into mine, the answer tumbles out of my mouth before I even realize my lips are moving. "Green."

That tenseness vanishes immediately. Now Edward just grins at me because he's _so_ got my number. "Can you be more specific, Ms. Swan?" Oh, and he's enjoying it, too. Evil man.

Answering his question, yes, I can _definitely_ be more specific, but I really don't want to be. Unfortunately, my mouth is clearly possessed. "Emerald. Bright, shiny emerald green."

He's looked in the mirror enough times to know what shade I mean.

Go ahead. Just kill me now.

"Happy now?"

When my lava blush reignites, Edward's grin turns certifiably wicked. But then he winks, and _God_. That soft, warm look is back, and as his fingers skate across my skin, tracing the outline of my face and my lips, he leans down closer and murmurs, "Yes, I am happy. Very much so." His lips touch my forehead. "At least I'm not the only one in over their head."

No, no he's not.

And I'm free! Free-falling!

Right. I'll stop that before someone has me committed.

"I have no idea what you mean." Never mind that my fingers somehow wind up interlocked with his. Yeah, yeah, whatever. I've never been that good at playing coy.

"I think you do." His brows do that wagging thing and he gives me another wink. "In fact, I know you do."

I want to roll my eyes at those silly brows, but it's useless. I know it. And he knows it. Which is why I damn that tropical storm to hell all over again when he leans down even closer, kisses me softly on the lips, and says, "If you weren't feeling ill, I hope you realize that I'd be all over you right now."


	13. RIVIERA I

**RIVIERA I**

"Leaving so soon?" Esme asks, frowning yet not really at all.

Now that we're all upright and no longer hugging the nearest toilet, the muted pastel-colored suits (yet another Chanel, _of course_) and giant matching pearls are out in full force again. Despite all outward appearances, I've concluded that Esme Cullen is no simple garden party society fixture, however. In fact, beneath that smooth, caramel coif, there's some _serious_ mental horsepower… as evidenced by the past thirty minutes of debate on Freud, Lacan, and the Three Orders.

Don't ask. I _might _have read something like that in college. Okay, fine, I know I did. Before going to law school, for some reason, I decided that Psychology was a good field of study and somehow managed to come away with a B.S. (appropriate acronym, no?). I don't talk about that, though.

Why? Because old men obsessing over genitalia and equating it to human behavior always made me nervous, so I tend to suppress most of what I learned in undergraduate.

Trust me, it's just better that way.

As such, I just sat there through most of dinner, half-gaping, half-wanting to laugh. After all, it's not every day you get to see a grinning, twinkly-eyed linebacker of a man argue with his perfectly manicured mother over psychoanalytic theory and philosophy at a dinner party.

_Most_ people talk about things like the weather. Or the latest bestseller. Or football.

_Yeah_... not these people.

Either way, like I said, Edward's mom is sharp as a tack, and for the past two nights, now that the boat's _finally_ made it into a pocket of calmer waters and we're all still alive, over the rim of her wine glass, she's been watching us like a hawk. I try my best to ignore the scrutiny, especially since all evidence points to her liking me just fine, but still, it's a little unnerving.

Then again, anything's better than jerk-face asshole's dad's death glares.

Because you know, expecting his son to actually work and support himself apparently makes _me_ the bitch. Asshole.

Whatever. I find myself caring less and less about Jake.

Cause I have better things on my mind. In fact, wolf boy is more like a minor footnote to the far more interesting goings on in my life right now.

Interesting, wonderful goings on that I don't think I _ever_ want to end, if we're being honest.

With a dramatic internal sigh, as quickly as they arrived, I cram those (very) dangerous romantic girlfriend-like thoughts right back where they came.

After all, I'm in Seattle, and Edward's at Cook County Regional. At least I think that's what he said that night in the Sky Lounge. That _is_ a hospital in Chicago, right? Or was that the one on TV? Or was it Northwestern Memorial?

I probably need to ask him that.

"Where are you two off to now?" Esme asks Edward again, entirely too innocently, too. I have the distinct impression that she's enjoying giving her oldest son a hard time over his love life. If I had to wager, and judging by Edward's own admissions, this is a real novelty for her. And like any good mother, she's taking _full_ advantage. It's really rather amusing. She lifts an elegant brow. "We've barely seen you all trip!"

"We'll be around," Edward answers, palming the back of his neck. There's a hint of pink to his cheeks, which, by the way, is both hilarious and adorable.

Across the table, sexy salt and pepper Garrett winks at me before slugging back fifty bucks worth of scotch. Next to him, Carlisle, in all his navy-blazer, WASPy, Paul Newman-reborn glory, smirks. And in that smirk, I see _exactly_ where Edward learned the look. Almost on cue, beneath the table, Edward's mischievous, wandering hand finds my knee, and I flinch/shiver when his pretty surgeon's fingers begin sliding upward to flirt with the hem of my dress.

Evil man.

Evil, _sexy_ man.

Whatever. Two can play that game.

Especially now that my stomach is back in line.

By the way, Scopolamine is the shit.

Batting my eyelashes, I put on my very sweetest smile, an expression I don't really get to use that often since I'm always scowling at all the asshole criminals I'm trying to throw _under_ the jail. But I'm _so_ using it now and I reach over and curl my fingers around Edward's knee, giving it a little squeeze. His slightly pink Adam's apple bobs twice, dipping beneath his open collar, and that I don't give a fuck scruffy jaw tenses. It's now this delightfully hard line that I'd like to test… with my teeth.

I remind myself to do that when we're alone.

"Where was it that you wanted to go again?" I ask, sliding my hand an inch or three higher. Like the vixen I am (or not), I begin tracing small circles on the inside of his thigh with the tip of my nail, and when he fails to hide the responding tremble, I do a mental fist pump. "A show?" I go on, so sweetly even I want to laugh. "Or was it the magician?"

Edward's Adam's apple bobs again before he leans down, close enough that only I can hear and close enough that his breath, warm and sweet from the tiramisu and last round of port, tickles my neck. "I'll show you _magic_, Ms. Swan."

My abdomen clenches. Hard. And this time I'm the one who can't hide the tremble. See, that might be a cheesy line from any other man on the planet, but not the way Edward says it.

He says 'magic' like I think he'd say 'fuck'.

"I love magic," I whisper back.

I have no idea where that came from.

No, yes, I do, especially as I recall this afternoon's chicken match with Rosalie and Emmett in the pool. Well, chicken match until ED Alec showed up with his white shorty shorts and wagging little finger._ "Naughty, naughty, Meez Swan and Meester Cullen! No rough playing in the pools! Maybe you go to the rooms to do the foreplay!" _

Yes, Alec actually said that. In public. I don't know how long it took for my cheeks to cool.

Regardless, all I've thought about since then is foreplay. In my room.

_Ugh. _

Without warning, Edward stands. Extending his hand and not budging until I place mine in his and rise, he winks at me and then says to his mother. "Night, Mom. Bella wants to see a little magic. We'll catch you tomorrow."

Carlisle chokes on a laugh as Emmett simultaneously snorts and asks, "Do you even know what deck the show is on?"

Not missing a beat, wearing that very same familial smirk, Edward rolls his eyes, places his hand in the dip of my back, and motions for me to start walking. A few feet away, he calls out over his shoulder, "Riviera, of course!"

Riviera indeed.


	14. RIVIERA II

**RIVIERA II**

It takes us all of about three minutes to make it from the dining room to my cabin.

But then it takes three more to get inside the door.

Why? Because a certain someone is distracting.

Very, _very_ distracting.

On my third attempt with the keycard, just as I'm about to scream in frustration, a certain pair of strong hands frames my hips and pulls me backward into a hard, warm chest that smells of a sweet, masculine cologne that I can't name.

Strike that. It does so have a name. I've decided to just call it _Eau de Edward_. This stuff is pure, undiluted sex in a bottle. Seriously. People just thought _Acqua di Gio_ was deadly... _Pfft!_ Not even close. I'm going to make zillions when I package this stuff and sell it at Macy's.

"Was dinner as long for you as it was for me?" Edward asks. His lips are right at my ear, running along the shell, touching but not.

"Yes, and you're killing me." I groan as that so-sexy, sinfully decadent mouth of his slides down and starts doing all those sinfully decadent things he likes to do to the side of my neck. Like some smooth Hollywood Casanova, he alternates between these long, wet, sucking kisses that leave me breathless and stinging nips that make me think I'm going to lose my mind.

I eventually give up even trying the lock because every flick of Edward's tongue against my pulse sends wicked, knee-buckling blasts of electric-like current through my abdomen and thighs. Never ceasing the assault on both my neck and my equilibrium, his palms slide up and down my ribcage.

"Give me the key," he mutters against my throat. His fingers splay out across my belly like he's afraid I'll bolt.

Like I'm going anywhere. Seriously. If we're being honest here, I'll give him anything about now.

Hell, that's the _plan_.

Well, that is, if I'm still standing and breathing by the time he's finished. Granted, that's pretty iffy.

Cause _holy fuck,_ his mouth.

Somehow, and don't ask me how, I eventually manage to pass him the keycard. And frankly, just between you and me, Edward's about as graceful and coordinated with it as I was. Okay, perhaps that's because the second he lets go of my neck, I spin around to give him some of the same. Really, it's only fair, you know.

Tit and tat and all.

After another handful of attempts and a half dozen groans between us, we finally stumble through the door. By now, we're a mess of tangled limbs, almost-hickeys, and hormones, and much to my aggravation, nowhere close to my bed. Impatient, which is both sexy and gratifying, especially seeing as how I'm more than ready to strip him down, Edward pushes me against the wall by the door. Before I blink, his mouth descends on mine and his hands drop right back down to my hips, fisting the clingy fabric of my dress.

Good. Boy.

Have I mentioned his mouth yet? _God._

"Can I?" Edward pants against my lips. Him sounding so breathy and hoarse and desperate just might be the sexiest thing I've ever heard. "I love this dress on you, but I have to get you out of it."

That he's even asking me after all the groping we've been doing over these last… however many days is simultaneously sweet and infuriating. I really just want to tell him to strip me already. With my hem riding high on my thighs, I'm already halfway there anyway.

Or maybe he could just let me strip him, which would be a-okay by me.

I'll happily undress him.

With my teeth.

Or even my toes.

Come on, you know I can't help myself. The shirt he wore to dinner is already unbuttoned halfway down (I plead the Fifth on that), and displaying no hint of self-control, or even any desire to have any, I'm already roaming every inch of his skin that I can find. Every time I scratch my nails across the planes and valleys of his abdomen, he makes the most delicious little sounds.

_Unf. _

Those sounds of his.

His half, soon to be all the way, naked self.

His mouth.

His hands.

Just _him_.

My dress peels up my ribs and flies over my head in a cloud of bright royal blue. The second it's gone, Edward's mouth vanishes from mine. Leaving my lacy bra in place, he nuzzles my breasts like they're his long-lost best friends. Cupping each one in either hand, he squeezes and kneads, pushing them together so that he can bury his face between them.

I kind of want to laugh, because he is _such_ a _guy_, but then he starts licking and nipping and sucking on one of my nipples through the fabric.

And oh, _God_.

"More." My eyes screw shut against the onslaught. How he can make something so… minor feel so absolutely incredible is a feat for the ages. He should write a book. Or make youtube guides for guys who suck at sex. I could be his demonstration subject.

When I say something else (possibly a threat on his life), cool air hits my skin, and when I look down, my breasts are bare, plumped up by my bra underneath like some kind of display. Or in Edward's case, judging by the way he's staring and almost-sorta drooling, like a buffet.

"_Fuck_," he murmurs.

Yes, he totally murmured that, and yes, Edward saying _fuck_ is exactly like magic.

Before I can voice my approval, his mouth is on me again, doing exactly what I asked for. Eager and humming against my skin, his lips close tight on my breast, tugging with these long, hard, stomach-clenching pulls that make my head thrash from one side to the other.

And his tongue.

_Ung._

His swirling, licking, laving, magical tongue is some blend of heaven and hell. Between that, the deliberate scrapes of his teeth, and the almost painful need between my thighs, I think I'm going insane.

"Oh, _God_."

Clearly pleased by my response, Edward pulls away to give me a so, so, _so _sexy lopsided smile, and I nearly cry from the loss of his mouth.

But he's not done.

Oh, _no_.

No, he's just getting started, and I swear, Edward Cullen has to be some kind of erotic mindreader. When he mixes in some light pinching and pulling in time with his sucking, no lie, the noise that comes out of me isn't even remotely human. If he keeps this up, I'll wind up dry humping him like I'm fifteen.

"More, please," I pant. I don't even know what I'm asking for.

"What can I do for you?" Edward whispers. "Tell me what you want from me."

_Everything._

Maybe I'll just move to Chicago and stalk him.

I don't say that, though. He might think I'm crazy, which is possibly true, but still... we don't need to let him know that.

So instead, since I'm all for honesty and okay, fine, since my brain pretty much checked out before we even walked (stumbled) through the door, I tell him the other thing I really, really, _really_ want. "Make me come."

"_Jesus_." But apparently that's the equivalent of a _yes, ma'am_, because Edward's hand instantly drops from my breast to trail down my stomach to the matching lace of my panties.

Fuck me.

_Please._

Those long, lovely surgeon fingers of his start by slowly stroking over the fabric. It's like he's petting me, and it's pure, evil torture. And because he's a purely, evilly sexy man, he teases me like that, running his fingers over me until I'm writhing against his palm, searching for any bit of friction or pressure that I can find. Just when I'm about to beg (threaten), however, as if he somehow detects he's about to get his head bashed in, those fingers disappear beneath the elastic edging and slide over my... ahem, most _intimate_ parts.

"You're _so_ wet," he mumbles against my breast. "_Please_ say I did this to you."

"God, _yes_."

"_Fuck._"

And there it is again.

What's left of my mind combusts when he begins to stroke me in earnest.

See, unlike jerk-face asshole, or, frankly, any other man I've ever been with, Edward actually pays attention. For him, apparently this isn't some race to the finish or a wham-bam-thank you ma'am quick means to an end.

No, he has the patience of a saint and the knowledge of a professor, and instead of just trying to muscle me to orgasm, which never, _ever _works (for all you men reading), he moves _with_ me, changing the angle, changing the depth, changing the pressure with every little whimper and jerk like he's looking for nirvana himself. He freaking _plays_ me, cajoling me with those pretty, magical surgeon's fingers until I'm all but convulsing.

I guess all those anatomy and physiology classes paid off, huh?

"Right there." I make a wheezy, gasping sound when he hits the spot that only my vibrator has ever found.

"Here?"

My back arches and I smack my head against the wall. "Uh-huh."

By the way, I'm super articulate when I'm about to orgasm.

Edward adds a second magical finger, curls his knuckles, and bumps the spot again. "You want it like that? Tell me how you want me to make you come."

I think I grab his hair and yank. I wouldn't know. Cause the only thing I see is the backside of my eyelids. "God, yes. Yes, just like that. And if you stop, I'll _kill _you."

My eyes slit open just enough to see him grin as his mouth clamps down on my breast again, sucking in the same hard, delicious rhythm as his fingers pushing inside me. When my knees start to buckle, I feel him grin even wider. But he doesn't stop.

Not even for a second.

Instead, Edward kicks my legs apart, pushes a little faster, goes a little deeper, and sucks a little harder. Just when I feel like I'm about to explode, like I can't take any more, his thumb finds what I like to call the self-destruction button, and I'm… _done_.

I'm _so_ done. And I come and come and come, until all I can see are stars.

Sometime later - a day, a week, a year, I don't know -I finally make it back to earth.

And somehow... I'm on my bed, which is both baffling and amazing because I don't remember getting here at all. Maybe I floated. Maybe I crawled. Either way, Edward is shirtless on his side, his head propped up on his palm, and he's staring down at me proud as a peacock.

"Would you like a medal?" I can't even muster enough energy to be sarcastic. It comes out more like a breathless giggle.

Because _holy shit_.

Of course, he just smirks like the orgasm-giving bad ass that he is. "I think that's fair. I like medals. And trophies."

"I have a better idea," I say, because I do. And suddenly… I have a little more energy after all!

"What's that?" Edward tries to play it smooth and nonchalant, but his voice is low and rough, because he knows _exactly_ what I'm talking about.

See, I'm more than okay with giving him a little head. In fact, at this point, I really, _really_ want to give it.

Call it a bit of gratitude for the best orgasm I've ever had. _Ever_.

Or maybe call it me being the generous, considerate lover that I am.

Or… fine, just call it me wanting his dick.

Was that crass?

Sorry, but it's true.

Rather than answering, wearing what I think is my own version of a wicked smirk, I lunge at him then. Before he can mount a defense (not that he would), I roll him to his back, straddle his hips, and pin his wrists to the mattress. Laughing, Edward starts to bat my hands away, but he's not even trying. When I reach for his belt, though, that laughter cuts out quick. Instead, he lets out a soft, _thank God,_ sighing kind of sound.

But guess what?

I can be a tease, too.

Giving him a dose of his own medicine, I run my hand over the seam of his pants. In other words, I pet him the same way he petted me.

Oh, God, and he's hard.

And long.

And thick.

And… _yeah_. If I can detect all that just through the fabric, there's no telling what he's actually working with. No kidding, despite the near-divine experience I just had, my insides somersault and clench. I may even be salivating. Because if Edward fucks _anything_ like he plays, I'll likely die.

But what a happy way to go…

For a while, giving him back exactly what he gave, I just stroke him like that. I listen to the way his breathing changes and watch the way he shifts. No better at hiding his reactions than me, he squirms beneath me. And he makes the _best_ noises.

Have I said that already?

Maybe so, but who cares. I'll say it again: _Edward makes the best noises._

For example, every time my fingers tease the outline of his head, a muted whimper spills out of his mouth. Or every time I stroke up and give him a gentle squeeze, he makes this strangled, choking sound in the back of his throat, and I can tell he's about two seconds from begging. So I keep doing it.

Over… and over… and over

I can't help it, okay? I want to make him feel as good as he made me. And on top of that, he's flat out addicting. Edward's like this favorite toy that I don't want to _ever _stop playing with.

Speaking of playing, he should just be glad I'm not donning little Eddie in a cape, or turning it into a mini catapult and launching dimes. Or, you know, something equally un-macho that women sometimes like to do with penises since we don't have them.

When I finally unzip his pants, Edward's hips buck off the bed, and I swear I hear him whine something a whole lot like, _"Finally." _I just grin at him then, even wider when I greet his um… _member_.

Because it's not just long and hard and thick. He's actually… kind of pretty. Well, pretty at least as far as these things go, which, honestly, shouldn't be that surprising considering how pretty he is everywhere else. But still, I'm impressed, and I decide that he's just made for play.

Or maybe porn.

Oh, yes, I think, as I take him between my lips. Next time I'm _so_ bringing a little square of fabric.

Maybe something in red.

We could make a movie with my iPhone.

Henry Cavill, move on over. Here comes _Little Man of Steel_.


	15. LIDO

**LIDO**

"Seriously? How much Bingo can they play?!"

"You'd be amazed."

"Ugh… What'd the Captain say anyway?"

"Dad talked to him this morning. Said if all goes well we _should_ be able to dock at Nassau tomorrow."

"_Finally_."

"So what do you want to do today?"

"I don't know. Lay here? What else is there? No more shows. I don't think I can handle seeing ED Alec in sequins again."

"Yeah, _no_."

"Aw, I think he likes you. And he's _so _pretty, too. Maybe I could watch."

"Watch? Watch what?!"

"Just sayin… if you two wanted to–"

"I'm not even responding to that… "

"Hey, a girl can dream…"

"I know, we could go to that cooking demonstration down on Deck 10. You know, so that you can learn to make me a sand… _Ow!_ You're so violent!"

"You asked for it… Okay, fine, so no Eddie/Alec sexy-timez hot porno show and no cooking. What else is there?"

"I don't know. I am _not_ going to another art auction with you. Ever. Don't even ask me."

"What? Why? The last one was _fun_."

"You know why."

"Did you huff? At me?"

"Yes, Ms. Swan, I huffed. At you. Here, listen, I'll do it again."

"Come on. That sculpture was anatomically… impressive. Your sister-in-law is the one who pointed it out. I just agreed with her. Even Emmett was impressed."

"Emmett is an idiot and they both were drunk on girl-champagne. And Rosalie's… well, she's not a good role model for you."

"Role model? I'm thirty-two."

"Yeah? So what? I'm thirty-five."

"I thought you said thirty-four."

"Close enough."

"Either way, I'm not nine."

"God, I'd hope not. This would be really, really illegal."

"That's so gross. I can't believe you even went there."

"You started it… You need sunscreen, by the way."

"Seriously? Am I burning already? You just put some on me like an hour ago!"

"Trust me, you're turning red. Tropic sun and all that."

"You just want to put your hands on me, don't you?"

"So? Your point? I like my hands on you. You like my hands on you. In you, too… Roll over. Let me get your back this time."

"Fine."

"I'll show you fine."

"Did you just unhook my top?! Edward, there are people here!"

"I'm being thorough like any good doctor should be... God, I love your skin."

"What? That's more than a little creepy. You're not like Wild Bill, are you? Are you going to skin me and wear me like a coat? Are you some weird serial killer/psychopath that stalks women on cruise ships for their tanned skin?"

"Jesus… Do you want me to stop? I will, you know."

"_It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again."_

"Be quiet. _Please. _That voice is very un-sexy. You're going to ruin my alone time in the shower."

"Alone time in the shower? You jack off to– Gah, that feels so good…. What? It does. You have magic hands. Such pretty magic hands."

"Did you really just say pretty?"

"No… Maybe… Okay, yes."

"You're wounding my ego, you know that, right? You may call me, or any part of me, hot, or sexy, or irresistible. Or any other manly accolade. Not _pretty_."

"Whatever. But not kidding, were you a masseuse in another life? Please continue to do this… forever."

"Doctor here. I know things about… muscles and shit."

"Muscles and shit? Really? You're so full of it. Lawyer here. I know liars."

"So that's why you like to argue, huh?"

"I do not… _Ugh_. Do that again."

"Do what? This?"

"Yes, that."

"Like this?"

"Oh, yes, just like that."

"Again?"

"_Yes_."

"Say please, and I will."

"Please… _fuck_."

"God, you have a dirty mouth. Say fuck again."

"Fuck."

"Are you asking me?"

"Maybe. Are you going to kiss me or what?"

"Maybe… What am I saying? You know the answer to that. I want to kiss you all the time. Everywhere."

"Well, hurry up."

"Maybe I want to go slow, _Bella_."

"Maybe, _Edward_, you could hurry up and then go slow?"

"Impatient, aren't we? I'm very patient, just so you know. And tonight I want to kiss you… here… until you're screaming my name."

"Edward! There are people up here!"

"So? No one's close. That one dude can't even hear."

"How do you know he can't hear? You're not psychic. Wait, are you psychic?"

"Doctor, remember?"

"You can't use that twice in the same conversation."

"Who made up that rule?"

"I did. Judge here."

"You are not."

"Fine, maybe one day."

"So you want that?"

"Want what?"

"You suck at playing coy, Bella. Don't even try. Answer the question. You want me to lick you here and make you come with my mouth?"

"_God_, yes."

"Good."


	16. SUN

**SUN**

It's official.

I want to marry Edward Cullen.

As I watch him torpedo down into the clearest, bluest water I've ever seen through the slightly fogged lenses of my snorkel mask, I realize that that might not be a joke either.

And that's _not_ just the orgasms talking.

Don't get me wrong, the orgasms certainly don't hurt, because, I mean, _holy damn… _But seriously, where this _thing_ (whatever we're calling it) started as something physical, it's… more than that now.

See, as sappy and lame as it sounds, for the first time in my life, I've found someone who I just _like_ being with. And it doesn't matter if we're here on this amazing island paradise, or watching a late night movie out by the pool, or playing hide and run with our over-eager entertainment director. Or even just hanging out in my cabin and talking about nothing in particular.

I just _like_ him…

All of him.

From his head to his toes. Inside and out.

And somehow, someway, by some strange twist of fate, unless Edward is an Oscar-worthy actor (which, judging by his shittastic Jack Nicholson impersonation, all evidence points to _no_), I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual. I'd say a solid 97.3%.

Which is why, as I float around in this bathtub-warm body of water, on the one and only day in port (besides that abbreviated stop at the beginning, which doesn't even count since I didn't go onshore), I'm strongly avoiding any thoughts of what's going to happen when we get back to Florida on Saturday.

Like how I'll board my plane back to Seattle and Edward will board his to Chicago.

Like how we'll probably trade emails and phone numbers.

Like how we might talk a few times and maybe even plan to meet up this time next summer.

Like how that'll wind up never happening because that's just the way distance things usually go.

Like how at some point he'll probably meet someone else and get married and have beautiful babies and live out in the suburbs with their white picket fence and cat and dog and goldfish, while I go back to my job where I'll be highly successful in putting asshole criminals away, but have no personal life to speak of other than the fourteen cats I'll adopt because, well, who doesn't like cats? And then I'll end up alone because I'll spend what little bit of free time I have feeding my cats and scooping out litter because fourteen cats shit a lot.

_Ugh._

Okay, maybe I'm not avoiding those thoughts that well after all.

Thankfully, before I can fall even further into that dark abyss (cause I'm _awesome_ at metaphors), as soon as he reaches ten or so feet down, Edward flips around to face me. As if I'm not already watching every move he makes, he waves to get my attention, scattering a school of neon yellow fish, and then points down to the sea floor, where a pair of red and orange starfish sit tucked between the stands of coral.

Craziness momentarily forgotten, I grin around my mouthpiece and immediately shoot down into what I can only describe as a ginormous aquarium, filled with fish and coral in every color and combination imaginable. The water is so clear and so glassy calm that I can see far deeper than my lungs can take me.

This might just be the coolest place I've ever been in my entire life.

When I reach him, Edward flashes me a thumbs up and begins to point out all the little nooks and crannies that I couldn't see from up above. Tiny blue and orange fish dart between the rocks, while to our right at least a dozen black, white, and yellow butterflyfish nibble at the coral. They're absolutely beautiful, rivaled only by the kid-like elation written all over Edward's face.

By the way, evidently, like the rest of him, Edward's lungs are in _great_ shape. Even though he's been down longer than me, he's not even straining.

I'll have to remember that.

I don't know how long we spend out in the water. It feels like only minutes. Especially when we locate an old sunken boat covered in coral and home to thousands of fish, including a very ugly but totally bad ass barracuda that scares the shit out of me. Regardless, Einstein was right, because time _is_ relative, so what felt like minutes was probably more like a couple of hours. I'm breathing hard and pretty much pickled by the time we finally make our way back to shore.

"So what'd you think?"

Still at the edge of the lapping surf, I glance up from the uncooperative knot of hair wrapped around one of the buckles on my mask. Apparently, there's a right and wrong way to take these things off. And clearly, I've picked the _wrong_ way.

I pause from my tugging long enough to reply with a nonchalant, "Not bad." You know, just to see his reaction.

Edward snorts at my lack of coordination, or maybe because I look ridiculous with a snorkel mask dangling from my hair. "Come here before you hurt herself."

I obey and wade toward him because his guess is spot on. I'm about two seconds from ripping out my own hair. When I huff and tilt my head toward him, he laughs, but his fingers are gentle as he carefully disentangles my hair. He frees me so quickly that for a second I actually wonder if he secretly cut it out. "Voila!"

Huh.

"So… not bad?" Now that I've been freed from my gear, he looks a little insulted. And it's adorable. "That's it? That's all you've got?"

Still playing all nonchalant and cool, as we walk up to our blanket, I give my traitorous hair a quick wring before throwing it up into a lazy man's bun (you women all know what I mean, a pony tail… but with the ends tucked under so it looks a little like a bun but requiring _none_ of the effort or skill). The sun's so warm that I forego toweling off and aim straight for the blanket.

In fact, it's actually pretty hot out here, but not in that awful sticky-humid kind of hot. With the light, continuous breeze coming off the water, it's that luxurious kind of temperature that soaks into your bones until you're all liquid and drowsy.

In other words, it's the exact opposite of Seattle, which is cold and wet… like all the time.

I love it here.

When Edward plops down beside me, he still looks insulted, bordering on pouting. I want to laugh, because seeing a grown, sexy ass man pouting is hilarious. I don't, though, and instead decide to give him a break. "Okay, fine, it was… _amazing_." I can't help it, I grin like a crazy woman (which I apparently am). "Really, I love it here… _thank you_."

"For what?" His tone is wounded, but I don't miss it when his lips twitch.

So I roll my eyes at him, but reply with truth. "Everything."

For a while, we gaze across the absolute glory that is this beach. But after a minute or two, _he_ give _me_ a break and his face finally splits in two. "You're welcome." His shoulder bumps mine. "Thank _you_."

Now that part's just baffling, you know, seeing as how he's the one who arranged everything, including the freaking helicopter ride that whisked us away from Nassau. "For what?"

I'm actually not playing at all. I really want to know.

Staring down at me in sudden seriousness, Edward shrugs, and then leans over to plant a soft, sweet kiss on my neck just below my ear, just where he knows I like it. "Everything."

I think I've already referred to us as besotted fools, but it's probably worth mentioning again. Because I'm sure that's exactly what we look like as we sit here on our empty beach, shoulder to shoulder, staring and smiling at each other like idiots. A tidal wave could come crashing down on top of me and I probably wouldn't even realize it.

Eventually, my stomach lets out a plaintive cry, however, and the spell is broken.

"What?" I say to a giggling (yes, _giggling_) Edward. "I'm starving!"

Which is true. To the point where I'm not even blushing that hard.

Hey, swimming is work, okay.

And we did _a lot_ of it.

With a quick reach behind us to his backpack, ever prepared, Edward produces a pair of water bottles. Following that, he whips out some Gatorade, some fruit, some granola bars, some trail mix, and a whole bevy of other snacks. I think I even see Oreos.

He's like a freaking boy scout.

Whereas I'm lucky if I remember to pack lifesavers.

As we tear into the trail mix, me picking out the marshmallows and M&Ms, him _of course_ picking out the more healthy dried apricots and raisins, I glance down the length of our beach again. The sand here is as white as can be and it's so fine that it reminds me of confectioner's sugar. It's a wide beach, too, framed by electric blue water on one side and a line of swaying palms on the other.

No lie, this is the kind of place you only see on those calendars in the mall.

Even better, it looks like we're the only ones on it.

"So were all of our islands supposed to be this nice?"

Edward tosses a raisin up in the air and catches it on his tongue. "Eh, some. A couple were definitely tourist crap-traps. But there's a few good spots. You just have to get away from port."

I don't have to look down the beach again to get what he's saying. "To avoid the rest of the cruisers."

He winks. "Precisely. Usually, I just use the ship like a hotel and go as far away as I can when we're docked." His lips mash together. "To be honest, this is the first cruise I've been on where I've actually done _any_ of the onboard activities."

I give him a little elbow in his ribcage. "You liked that art auction. Don't lie."

"Did not."

I give him some more elbow, only this time I can't help but steal a little peek at all those pretty muscles and lines. Between the daily trips to the pool and all the playing, I've seen him shirtless now more times than I can count, but whatever. _That_ particular image is one I doubt I'll ever tire of seeing.

Or touching.

Or licking.

You get the picture.

"Yeah, fine. Maybe a little." Edward gives me a little elbow right back, but then, catching where my focus truly is, he zooms in to give me another kiss on the neck, only this one's wetter and longer.

And then… without warning, he tackles me, taking me down to my back, and pins my hands with only one of his. "But I liked what we did afterward a whole lot more, though."

My resistance is feigned and very, _very_ short-lived. When I give in, he lets me go, and I slide my arms around his neck, happily leaning forward as he slants his mouth to take mine. This kiss is slow and long, hot and slick, and like every other time, Edward kisses me with more than just his lips.

Ever the multitasker, he kisses me with his entire body. As his mouth continues its slow, sensual, erotic assault, one hand frames my face, while the other slowly skims down my arm to my ribs, and then to my waist. Even though it's summer hot out here, a little shiver runs through my limbs as his fingers spread, splaying over my hip to pull me closer.

"You wore this on purpose, didn't you?" he murmurs against my lips, as his forefinger teases the bow keeping my bikini bottoms together. When I open my eyes, he's staring right down at me, and that scorching, hypnotic gaze is back. Only now I have a whole lot better idea what's behind it.

Yes, _please_. I'll take some of that.

"Yes and no," I say (pant) once he lets me back up for air again.

Pfft, _of course _I did. One, this little suit is the same bright royal blue as his favorite dress of mine. Two, this is another Alice special, so it fits me _perfectly_. Three, um, hello, easy access? And four, "I only brought two suits with me anyway."

With a little groan, Edward drags his palm back up to my waist, but I just twist into him to close the gap. The tips of his fingers brush the edge of my top.

"You're killing me," he says, as I kiss and nip my way up _his_ neck this time. That he's already a little breathy makes me even bolder, and I can't help but run my teeth along the hard line of his jaw. It's so delectably hard. This time he shivers and his hand automatically moves up to cup my breast. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

Judging by the rock hard line of um… _muscle_… pressed against the outside of my thigh, I certainly do.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." _Pfft,_ I can so play coy.

When I shift and rub my thigh against his hard on, Edward lets out another delicious, muffled groan. So… I do it again. And again. And again, each time earning me all sorts of sexy little noises.

After another few not-so-accidental brushes, I hit his tipping point. He does this little growling thing in the back of his throat, and before I can blink, my hands are again pinned against the blanket above my head. A second later, his mouth finds its way back to mine, and over the fabric of my top, his thumb flicks across my nipple in time to the slow, rhythmic, in-and-out motion of his tongue.

Oh, _God._

Can you come from nipple stimulation?

I think I can.

Just when I'm all for trying it out, Edward freezes, however. And then, because God clearly hates me, he turns me loose, rolls away, and settles on his back.

_Damn it!_

"Yes, I think you do know what you do to me, Ms. Swan." After a few short, choppy breathes, Edward lets out a long, whistling one, and then reaches down to adjust his swimming trunks. And… I'm struck with a brief moment of jealousy over… fabric. I'm certifiably insane.

"And," he goes on, even though I'm about to combust. "I think if we didn't have another stop on our schedule and if I didn't know for a fact that we passed a local policeman on our way out to the beach… and that he's likely right over there by the tree line, I'd show you _exactly_ what I'm talking about just in case you didn't."

Stupid schedule.

Stupid policeman.

Stupid tree line.

"Tease." Frustrated and maybe a little (a lot) horny, I wave my hands around like the insane creature I am. It probably doesn't have the same dramatic effect when I'm flat on my back, but I'm okay with that. I'm sure he gets the picture.

"Do you want to get arrested?"

"He wouldn't arrest us." I put on my best Sue Ellen voice. "You see, Officer, here I was… just lying out on this gorgeous beach, minding my own business, when suddenly this very pretty–"

"_No!_ Not that word!" A snorty laugh still tumbles out of Edward's mouth. "We discussed this already."

I drop my arm across his stomach in a loose-limbed smack, which nets me nothing but a surprised cough and tightening of his (pretty) abs. "Fine." I huff in faux indignation. "Like I was saying, Officer, I was just lying out here on this beautiful, white sandy beach, just relaxing and trying to get a tan, when all of the sudden, this _smoking hot _young doctor came by. Well, he must have thought I'd passed out and needed mouth to mouth because before I knew it, he was _all_ over me."

Edward really laughs then, either at my silly little story or my piss-poor Southern drawl. It's that low, masculine, sexy-ass laugh that makes me want to climb on top of him.

I drop an octave. "Well, sir, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry, Officer." Edward presses his fist to his chest. "I saw this beautiful woman there on the beach, wearing this skimpy little bathing suit… She was so still and I couldn't tell if she was breathing or not. I just _had_ to make sure. I took an oath, you know. Do no harm and all that…"

I flash my would-be savior a smile and shrug, which again doesn't seem to have the same effect while horizontal. "I don't know, sounds pretty plausible to me. I vote for untying my bikini."

"Now who's the terrible one?"

We lie there on our backs for a few more minutes, not really talking, but instead just soaking up the sun in comfortable silence. At some point, Edward (or maybe it was me) reaches over and grabs my hand. I don't even notice it until his thumb begins lightly stroking my knuckles.

"I want to tell you something."

I don't look at him yet because there's something quiet and new in his voice. "What's that?"

He hesitates for a second and his thumb stops its gentle stroking, but then his fingers, interlaced between mine, give mine a firm squeeze. "I've never met anyone like you."

I know what he's saying, but I've never been that comfortable with meaningful declarations, so, me being me, I opt for a little sarcasm. "I'd hope not."

He squeezes my fingers again. "No, I'm serious." When I look over, Edward's face is all hard lines and angles. "I've never met anyone… anywhere… who's affected me the way you do."

I don't respond at first, other than to swallow, because it's exactly what I do and do not want to hear. Instead of merely fluttering, my stomach takes a dive. In all honesty, it's a pretty telling reaction, analogous to the all or nothing words sitting on the very tip of my tongue. But…

Oh, what the hell.

"Me neither…" I tell him, barely above a whisper. "I didn't think you existed."


	17. SPORT

**SPORT**

"Can you believe these people?"

I glance over to Edward and I don't quite understand his expression. His nose is all scrunched up and his eyes are a little squinty. He looks… annoyed? Or something like that. But either way, it doesn't make any sense considering what's in front of us.

Being that we're in the middle of a crowded lounge (basically killing time before tonight's big event), I lean into his side (as if I'm not close enough already) so I can whisper. "What are you talking about?"

Without looking away from the stage, he tilts his head toward me and answers out of the side of his mouth. "_We_ know more about each other than these people do! How are they even married?!"

Right on cue, as if to illustrate Edward's point, a youngish, brown-haired guy in the center of the stage nervously answers ED Alec's question. "Red. Her favorite color is red."

The look this guy's wife, a thin blonde in a super cute 50s style polka-dot dress, gives him is… priceless, and Alec, that smug, pretty little thing that he is, replies in sing-song triumph. "_Ehhhhh!_ I'm sorry, Meester Jones! The answer is yellow! You are now zero for the three!"

With an exaggerated shake of his head, which, by the way, doesn't do a thing to the gelled perfection of his hair, Alec dances across the stage, wiggling his tight little butt like he's the one winning this final round. Doing the best moonwalk I've ever seen, he sings back to the losing contestant. "I think you better to be getting the _flowww-ersss!_"

The lounge erupts in raucous laughter, at the poor guy, sure, but probably more so at Alec. It's impossible to not love him.

Still wearing that absurdly cute annoyed expression, Edward whispers to me, "How did that idiot not know that? Seriously. I don't get it!"

"We should have lied and signed up to play," I tell him, but I can't stop myself from giggling at his strange indignation, so it comes out all warble-y. "We'd have mopped the floor with them."

At that, Edward's frosty expression thaws and he squeezes me even tighter. "Damn right, we would've."

When Alec starts up again, we start playing our own little game. As the contestants on stage do their damnedest to not piss their other halves off, we see just how well we would have done had we signed up. And for a little while… we (okay, fine, just I) pretend that we actually _could_ have signed up… which is maybe (probably) a very, _very _dangerous thing to do.

Have I mentioned just how much I'm _not_ looking forward to our arrival in Florida day after tomorrow?

Because I'm a complete and utter chicken shit, I still haven't talked to Edward about what to expect as far as _we_ go, but then again, it's not like he's brought it up either. And when I think about what _that_ means, never mind that conversation on the beach, my chest gets tight and achy.

_Ugh. _

Damn it, stop that!

"Okay, Couple Number 4!" Alec announces, abruptly (and thankfully) breaking into my spiraling meanderings. I swear he's the most excitable person I've ever seen. Beyond that, today he's back in that eye-gouging tropical shirt of his. You know, the one with the toucan on his pec, and, no lie, that thing's outrageous/hideous enough to lighten anyone's mood.

Including mine. At least for now.

"_Vat_... is your husband's favorite… band?"

I grin at that one (and at Alec's exaggerated vat), because, hello, I learned that the very first day at the pool. "Radiohead…" Stretching up, I peck Edward on the cheek and snicker. "Because my _husband_ likes his grunge alternative pretentious and overrated."

Edward muffles his laugh in my shoulder and pinches my side. "Hateful woman."

"Couple Number 5. _Vat_ is your wife's favorite… book?"

"Hmmm," Edward hums in my ear, which does all sorts of tingly things to the rest of me. "Let's go with _Slaughterhouse Five_… because my lovely _bride's_ sense of humor is on the darker side and, to be honest, a little fucked up."

My stomach flip-flops at his choice in words, but being that we're just messing around, I do my best to keep it off my face. Instead, I flash him another grin, this one a little wicked, and say in my sweetest voice, "_So it goes_."

Onstage, Alec lets out a peel of high-pitched laughter when the contestant's wife whacks him on the leg. "Someone will do the sleeping out on deck tonight!" He winks at the audience and claps his pretty little hands. "Back to couple Number 1. _Vat _is your husband's favorite… sporting team?"

Now this one is a bit tricky. See, I remember something from our second dinner… something about the teams in Seattle (weird, I know). But come on, Edward's a Chicago boy, and from the other day by the pool, I know he loves baseball. If not, then he and Emmett sure fooled me.

So it has to be the Cubs. He looks like a Cubs fan.

Don't ask me why I said that.

I don't even know the color of their uniforms. I also don't know any other teams in Chicago.

Except… Da Bears. But that's football.

I think.

Or is that SNL?

"Cubs?" My voice squeaks.

Edward's eyes crinkle a little, and for a split second, I think he just might tell me I'm wrong, but then he nods. "You had to guess at that one, huh?"

I shrug. Since, well, it's true.

I totally guessed.

"_Ehhhh!_ The correct answer is the Edmonton Oilers…" Alec does another silly little dance, complete with honest to God jazz hands. I wonder if he's on speed. "Hello, Eeeeeberleeee!" The crowd whoops and yells, and Alec just grins and grins and grins. "All right…" He slices the air, silencing us all with sudden seriousness. "Moving on… Couple Number 2! _Vat _is the name of your wife's… first pet?"

Okay, now Edward and I both start at that one. Cause come on, what guy (or woman) could get that?!

"Just _kid-ding!_" Alec let's out the best giggle-snort ever. I kinda want to take him home with me. Alice would _love_ him. Those perfectly manicured brows waggle. "But let's get a little more… _intimate_, shall we?"

Everyone _ohhhs_ and _ahhhs_. Because let's face it, we all know that the Newlywed Game is best when it gets a little raunchy. Especially when we're all… lubricated. Which we are. But not like that night at Sky Lounge. I _still _can't remember half of what went down, which is a real shame since it was apparently some pretty good stuff.

"_Vat_ is your wife's favorite… _position?_"

Forget the rest of the cruisers, my attention instantly zeroes in on the man beside me. Edward's throat dips, and I bet a hundred bucks that if the lights went up, his cheeks would be tinged with pink, but I don't cut him any slack. No, no, _no_. Instead, I cock a brow and throw him my very best smirk.

I also slide my hand to his thigh.

Because I can.

Unlike the guy onstage, who stutters out a shaky reply, to which his wife then screeches her disapproval, Edward takes a moment to think. Or maybe, more accurately, to imagine. Which would explain the increasing intensity of his stare. And the slight twitch I detect in his southerly half. And the sudden, responding tightening in _my_ abdomen.

"I can't answer that… _yet_," he finally whispers. He pauses to nip at my ear lobe, something I honestly had no idea turned me on until he proved that it did. As I lean into him even more, sinking against the hardness of his chest, sucking in more of that oh-so-yummy _Eau de Edward_, his fingertips brush the outer curve of my breast, and then sneak over to graze my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress. It's dark inside the lounge, and I know and he knows that no one can see, but the touch still feels a little illicit and sends an electrifying shiver up my spine. He doesn't miss it either, and I feel his lips spread when he adds, "But if it's alright by you, I have about a dozen or so I'd like to try."

While I appreciate and respect Edward's preference to go a little slow and build up to the final act…

_Fuck me. _

Hard, fast, easy, or slow, but for God's sake, after the last… however many days, never mind what may come, just _please_.


	18. STAR I

**STAR I**

It takes me all of about two seconds to realize that the trek down to the dining room is going to be a long one tonight.

Being that it's the next to last night onboard and, too, the _only_ formal one since the first one was canceled due to those godawful, nauseating three-story waves, I guess it makes sense that everyone is out. And believe me, they _are._

_Everyone._

When I finally make it to the elevators, judging by the horde of people waiting, it'll be next year before I can catch one. And when/if I do, I'll be sharing the tiny space with a dozen or more of my closest friends. Which is something I'm really not too keen on experiencing. There's already enough Chanel No.5 floating around to choke a chicken, so I can't imagine how concentrated it must be enclosed in twenty-five square feet of glass.

Given that I have no other real option, I suck it up, hike up the skirt of my ball gown (oh, yes, I'm in an honest to God ball gown tonight), and aim for the opposite side of the atrium, where the grand, spiraling staircase begins. And I hope and pray that I can make it all the way down without breaking a heel.

Or my face.

Which, let's be honest here, is a very possible outcome.

The descent down is, as expected, glacial in terms of speed. That's in part due to all the other cruisers I have to dodge and avoid, all of who seem to be holding both a camera and a glass, and none of who seem to be paying a lick of attention. Of course, it's also due to my heels (sky high) and the floor-length hem of my dress. But honestly… it's mostly because the staff has really outdone themselves tonight, and I can't stop myself from staring.

You know me by now. It doesn't take that much to distract me. And never mind that in practice, I'm a firmly at the plain-Jane wear all black end of the fashion spectrum, I'm especially susceptible to sparkles.

What can I say? They're pretty.

Now just how or when the crew managed to do all this, I have no idea, but they've done up each and every deck. In addition to all the usual greenery and twinkling lights, glittering streamers hang from the ceiling, all pointing down to a giant champagne glass pyramid at the bottom. Everywhere I look, there are huge bouquets of exotic flowers, ice sculptures, and dozens upon dozens of shiny platters filled with fancy hors d'oeuvres. It's something right out of a magazine and it's all so lovely that as I come around the last turn, I _almost_ miss the man in the tux standing at the bottom of the stairs.

_Almost_.

Cause in reality, there's no way in hell that I could actually _miss_ Edward Cullen.

Not when he's in full evening dress.

Yes, I said _full _evening dress.

White tie, waistcoat, and all.

And especially not when he's staring up at me like I'm the only thing he can see.

In a way, the whole scene reminds me of that part in _Titanic_. You know, the one where Rose comes down the stairs and Jack's there waiting for her, looking all spiffy'd up and hot, and everything else just melts away. I just hope our story ends a little better than theirs. Sure, I love a good tragedy about as much as anyone, but… not when it involves me. Or icebergs. That would suck big time.

Either way, it's unnerving. And exhilarating. And beyond all doubt, more now than ever, I want him. _So_ much.

And that's not just the sex.

Well, I do want the sex.

I want it a lot, damn it.

But that's not the only thing. No, I want _all _of it.

The beautiful babies. The suburbs and white picket fence. The cat, the dog, and the goldfish.

Well, maybe not the goldfish. Aquariums are a pain.

"You look…" Edward starts, but falters as his eyes roam me from head to toe. His Adam's apple does that bobbing thing, too, but with the tightness of his collar and tie, it rolls more than it bobs, which for some reason is strangely and incredibly sexy (go figure). I have the distinct urge to launch myself at him. I don't, though. We are in public, after all. And, okay, I'd likely end up breaking something, so I settle on just smiling with every part of my face. He swallows one more time before finally recovering with a simple, soft, "_Perfect._"

My smile widens and my heart jumps, not just at his choice of words, but more at the almost _reverence?_ that I hear in Edward's voice. I've never heard that before, at least not directed at me. It makes me feel even mushier inside.

As an aside, Alice is going to flip, of course, because, see, this whole ensemble is every bit her doing, not mine. I'm wearing this ridiculously expensive, navy-nearly-black little number with a strapless beaded bodice (that fits me like second skin) that flares at the hips into a modern, gauzy, floor-skimming skirt. It's elegant, delicate, and did I say expensive already? Holy shit, I still can't believe she talked me into buying it.

But now? I'll give her credit where it's due.

And judging by the tone of Edward's voice, I owe her… _a lot_.

"You're not so bad yourself," I tell him back, aiming for a bit of lightness. _My_ tone gives me away, however, so I wind up spilling the truth. "And by not bad, I mean… _wow_."

Wow, indeed.

"I'll take that." Clearly pleased by my assessment, Edward grins his signature grin, which turns that _wow_ into something more like _oh, my swoon_. Leaning in, his lips brush my cheek. "Although _I'm_ not the one everyone is staring at."

I have no idea what he's talking about, but before I can ask, like the proper, well-heeled gentleman he apparently is, Edward takes my hand and curls it around his arm so that he can escort me the rest of the way down.

Now, some people might assume that he's wearing me like a trophy as we descend those final steps, but I know better than that. He's not wearing me at all; if anything, _I'm_ wearing _him_, like he's set himself up as some kind of background prop to showcase _me_. It's a quiet, understated gesture that Edward does without even thinking, and for the thousandth time since meeting him, my stomach flutters with delight.

"I don't know…" Angling toward our favorite Entertainment Director, who's currently positioned over by the grand piano, I murmur (something I've gotten rather good at, by the way), "I still think that you and Alec ou–"

"_Don't._" Edward makes this little growling sound in the back of his throat and his eyebrows slant in playful warning. Two fingers pop up to clamp my lips together, at which I instantly start giggling, lipstick be damned. I giggle even more when he starts fussing. "Ms. Swan, don't you _dare_ ruin the perfect image I have of you right now."

Enjoying myself far too much, I kiss his fingers, which turns that little scowl of his into something much softer.

As we walk by the piano, I glance over my shoulder and throw my hand up at the so, _so_ pretty man who probably deserves a medal or something. Alec's wearing the biggest, I told you so grin I've ever seen. Thinking I should at least say hello, you know, to be polite, I start to slow down, but he just wags his pretty little finger and with an audible _tsk!_ shoos us on. It's like he thinks his work is done or something.

Yeah, fine, I can admit it now.

Just like he promised, I guess ED Alec found me "the boyfriend!"

Or something like that, at least.

I make a mental note to give him all excellents on my post-cruise survey thingy.

Before I start thinking too hard about post-cruise and all the uncertainty that entails, Edward whisks us the rest of the way across the atrium, around the gigantic champagne pyramid (which is impressively stable, I might add), to the opposite side of the room, where the rest of his family has staked their claim. The second we arrive, Esme's face lights up.

"Bella! You look so lovely!"

In one of the most elegant dresses I've ever seen, at the mall or the runway, Edward's mother is absolutely… stunning. She's draped from head to toe in designers and diamonds, but like every other time I've seen her, she's warm and so inviting, and she doesn't hesitate to throw her arms around me to whisper in my ear. "I just want you to know that I'm _so_ happy he's met you. I've never seen him like this."

"Me too." My eyes sting a little, because I am. Regardless of what happens.

Fine, even _I_ wince at myself for that one. I'm turning into such an emo sap.

Since it's cocktail hour (or maybe hours?), we all – Esme and Carlisle, Garrett and Kate, Rosalie and Emmett, and Edward and I – spend the next few minutes chatting away, talking about nothing in particular. Well, that is, except for Esme and Emmett. They're still not finished with their debate on Lacan. But judging by the gleam in Esme's eyes, I get the distinct impression that she just likes giving her youngest son some shit when it comes to his chosen field.

Oh, that's something else I've learned, too. Emmett's not actually a linebacker. He's a shrink.

Which makes his frustration doubly amusing.

"They're always like this, aren't they?" I whisper to Edward.

Like it's meant to be there, Edward's palm automatically drops to the dip of my waist. "Ever since Em decided to go to Ann Arbor instead of the University of Chicago."

I can't stop my eyebrows from lifting, because that would certainly explain all that mental horsepower lurking beneath the designer duds. "That's where she went?"

"Yeah…" Edward's lips twitch like they're fighting a smile, and then in the worst, put-on, hoity-toity accent I've ever heard _in my life_, he adds, "And he also chose _Developmental _instead of _Behavioral_."

And now it's my turn for my lips to twitch, but in my case, it's more at Edward's horrifc accent than anything else. Really, he's a terrible, _terrible _actor, worse than even me, which, frankly, is saying something pretty extraordinary. Trust me. My high school drama teacher once told me that I was worse than Pauly Shore in _Biodome_. It wouldn't have been so insulting had I not been playing the role of a cow. Don't ask. It was a very bad play.

Nonetheless, I put on _my_ best, put on, hoity-toity accent when I reply. "Much to your mother's… _chagrin_, I take it."

Even though I'm not that funny, Edward's shoulders shake like crazy. Okay, and so do mine. Cause seriously, who even uses that phrase?!

"Mom's more of a… theorist, I guess," he says after a second. "She's retired, but I guess she'll always be a professor."

See, now that explains _everything_. Edward's mom is _definitely_ not just some society fixture. She's freaking brilliant. And where I liked her just fine before, I suddenly like Esme Cullen… _a lot_.

Actually, I like his entire family… _a lot_.

A whole lot.

And right now I can't help but grin at Emmett's increasingly annoyed expression. Apparently, neither can Rosalie. Standing across from us between Kate and Carlisle, in a blood-red, second-skin gown that puts the hottest supermodels on the planet in the shade, she's laughing her ass off, which does nothing but deepen the scowl on her linebacker/psychologist/husband's face.

"Your mom's screwing with him. It's… adorable."

Edward laughs again, and it's my favorite laugh, too. Low and throaty and oh, so sexy, and while I know I've said it a dozen times already, I still can't get over the things it does to me. Tucking me even tighter into his side, his lips move against the shell of my ear in a conspiratorial whisper. "_Shh!_ Don't tell him that and ruin our fun. He's the only one here who doesn't realize it."

I stretch up on my toes to kiss him on the cheek. "You're secret is safe with me."

From somewhere above us (Deck 7?), the high-pitched strain of a violin suddenly cuts through the noise of the meandering crowd. It's strange (and just a little freaky) how everyone immediately stops talking. Another one joins in by the second measure. A deeper, lovely viola comes in next, followed by the rich, room-filling bass of the cello.

What?

Just because I don't know Broadway tunes doesn't mean I don't know strings when I hear them. I know my symphony shit. In fact, I'm a regular at Benaroya. And while I don't recognize this particular piece, I can tell right off the bat that it's a waltz. It's a pretty one, too, slow and romantic and ideal for dancing. Like the stuff they always play in the movies when the hero finally gets his heroine.

There's a moment of silent, awkward hesitation, but then, as if on cue, a handful of bolder couples step out of the crowd and make their way to the center of the atrium. Turning it into a makeshift ballroom, they start to float across the swirly tile, spinning and dipping in that familiar 1-2-3-1-2-3 beat.

I won't lie, some of these people are pretty terrible, but there's a few who are really, _really_ good dancers. Either way, I smile at them all, because it's kind of awesome to see all these folks dressed up and being so sweet and romantic. Especially the old ones. There's one couple out there that has to be in their upper 80s. The woman is this tiny, little bedazzled blue-hair that I vaguely recall from the Bingo line, and she and her husband are just… adorable. While they don't stray far from their spot to the side, which is probably a good thing since the old man has his cane hanging off of his elbow, they're laughing and grinning, and I can tell they've been doing this longer than I've been alive.

"May I?" Edward's lips move from my ear to my temple, as five points of warmth tighten around my waist.

It's the same question he asked me at Sky Lounge the night we _really _met, but… not. It's different now. Behind the pull and heat that's always there, there's… more.

Even still, me being me – and at the moment a very _un_-lubricated me – I waver, to which Edward just rolls his eyes like I'm a petulant five year old.

"Seriously? Come on, now." He pouts a little, which renders me speechless. "You're not going to deny me now, are you?"

Oh… I could take that so many ways. So, so many ways.

The answer to all of them is, of course… _no._ I'm incapable of denying him anything.

So with a shrug and shake of my head, I let him tug me out on to the floor.

And I let him clasp my hand and waist in the proper pose.

And then I let him (literally) sweep me off my feet.

I should go ahead and say this. I actually do know how to dance. Waltz, foxtrot, you name it. Now, I'm not saying I'm necessarily graceful about it, okay, but I do know how, at least in terms of the mechanics. For some bizarre reason, dancing was one of those things Renee insisted that I learn, despite her hippie ways. Maybe she really _was_ psychic. Maybe she somehow saw this moment in my life in one of her crystals. Who knows.

Regardless, even if I didn't know the steps, it wouldn't matter at all.

Why?

Cause, see, Edward is a _great_ dancer, which I kind of knew already, but what I didn't know was that that skill clearly ranges from club floor bump and grind to classical ballroom.

Does he know how to do everything?!

Okay, fine, besides acting. He doesn't know how to do that.

Either way, for the next few moments, we spin along with the music, floating from one side of the room to the other. With every turn, the faces around us seem to fade. This happens to us a lot, I've noted. It's like we get lost in our own little world. And I like this world. I like this world more than my own. In fact, I'd like to just… stay in it.

"Have you had a good time?" he asks, as we simultaneously make a second sweeping turn. Even though the lights are dim, the color of his irises is unmistakable – vivid, bright, and pretty much the equivalent of tractor beams in their ability to suck you in. Whatever. I told you I watched SyFy.

"I have." I answer that one truthfully. Because I have. I've had the _best_ time. "What about you?"

Edward flashes me a megawatt grin, and I almost step on my own feet.

"Yeah, I have. I wish I could have taken you to more of the islands." Grip tightening, Edward leans in to touch his mouth to mine.

So we've probably kissed a hundred times by now, and in at least as many different ways. Long and wet. Dry and quick. With teeth. Without teeth. Naked (mostly) and not.

_Unf. _

I _like _those naked ones (and so does he).

But this one. This kiss is a light, oh, so sweet kiss that threatens to make my knees go weak. There's _so_ much promise in the way he lingers, the way he sucks my bottom lip, the way he tentatively, sweetly swipes his tongue into my mouth. I fist the fabric of his jacket, wanting this to never end. As his hand moves from my side to the center of my back to pull me in closer, my stomach tightens and clenches, because… _yeah_.

Much to my dismay, Edward finally does pulls away, however. Which is probably the smart choice seeing as how we're still surrounded by all these people. Who I maybe forgot about. Which might have been a problem had I decided to ditch my clothes.

But he doesn't go far.

He leans back just a few inches, still close enough that all I can see is _him_.

"But… I'm really looking forward to finally getting back home and off this boat."

And… _what?_

Fuck.

Fuck.

_Fuck. _

You know that sensation when you've spent all morning inside your warm, toasty bed and you finally drag yourself out to go take a nice, hot leisurely shower, for which you've somehow magically managed to get the water _just_ right, and you get in and start to lather up your hair, but you only make it about midway through because suddenly, out of nowhere, the hot water just disappears, because some idiot asshole in the house flushed a toilet or turned on the washer?

You know that sensation?

When you're abruptly doused with ice-cold water?

Water so cold that your blood freezes and you feel like your bones are about to shatter?

This is… that. But worse.

My stomach is somewhere around my ankles. I do my best to hold my expression, but inside, between you and me, I'm dying.

He's _that_ eager to leave?

What the hell did I miss?

I know. Trust me, I _know_. It's silly and utterly absurd how attached I've gotten. We've known each other for days, just a little under two weeks. But my brain can't stop replaying… _everything_ – all the things we've done together, all the things we've said, all the perfect, unbelievable chemistry that I swear to God I thought he felt, too. Some (huge) part of me had hoped… that somehow we'd make it work, despite the distance.

And yes, I realize I might be just a little melodramatic… but I can't help it, okay.

"What's wrong?" Edward's brows fold into a sharp, worried _v_.

Not wanting to lose my dignity too, I swallow, plaster on a smile, and grit my teeth to keep my eyes from watering. "Nothing."

But I'm the equivalent of Pauly Shore, remember?

And apparently, he's not a bad actor at all. Apparently, Edward is a good actor. A very good one.

He sure fooled me.

Did I say fuck already?

We stop in the very center of our makeshift dance floor. The dozen or so other dancing couples continue to spin, churning around us, which, by the way, is an uncanny and very appropriate metaphor for the roiling currently going on in my gut. Uncaring that anyone can see, Edward's hands, warm and sure, leave my waist to frame my face, and as his eyes bore into mine, his brow slants even harder. It's the same look he gave me the night I was seasick, and that's… well, that's just another kick in the shin, now isn't it?

"What did I say?" His Adam's apple rolls behind his bowtie, and even now, when I'm wanting to melt into the floor, I still think it's sexy as all get out. Damn Edward Cullen to hell.

Holy hell, this is going to hurt, too.

Even more than Jake.

Cause, see, as lame as it may sound, at least for me, time (or the lack thereof) doesn't mean shit when it comes to the matters of the heart.

A long, painful second passes where neither of us speaks. He's still studying me, and I'm, well, fine, I'm trying not to cry in sad disappointment. The music, beautiful and so romantic, still plays on, and the people around us, oblivious, still dance.

But then… out of nowhere, it's like a light bulb goes off. Or like lightning strikes. Or any other similar and appropriate simile. I see it happen, too. Edward's eyes pop wide and his cheeks, tan from our days in the sun, turn ashen.

Which makes no sense. At all.

His mouth opens and shuts, and his hands abruptly fall away from my cheeks. Barely above a whisper, he finally asks, "You don't want to see me when we get back to Seattle, do you?"

.

.

.

Wait… what was that?


	19. STAR II

**Been trying to post this for two days now. Blasted website wouldn't let me upload. Sigh... **

**STAR II**

I realize pretty quickly that this isn't exactly the best conversation to be having in the middle of a crowded dance floor. Especially not when Edward's family is only twenty feet away. I like them, and they like me. But being that they're _his_ family and all, they probably like him more.

Okay, and they outnumber me.

Grabbing my baffling would-be lover by the sleeve, I drag him off the floor and into a nearby elevator, which miraculously, despite the earlier long-ass wait, is free. Don't ask me how it's free. I don't know. I don't claim to understand the inner workings of crowd mentality and bulk people movements.

Thankfully, Edward follows me in without a word.

But what's the phrase?

_Right. _

Actions speak louder than words.

As I hit the button to go up, as rigid as I've ever seen him, Edward shoves his hands deep inside of his pockets and then he leans against the opposite wall.

Basically… as far away from me as he can get.

_Ouch. _

You know, it's amazing how much tension an elevator can hold. Seriously, it's like this weird, invisible balloon that keeps swelling and swelling and swelling, until it's squishing me against the wall. I try to regulate my breathing through a few of the techniques I picked up in yoga (which, by the way, I'm _terrible _at, as that bit of torture requires at least a modicum of balance, which I don't have), but it's no use. All my lungs seem to be capable of producing are these short, shallow pants that don't deliver nearly enough oxygen to the rest of me.

Meanwhile, as if pulmonary distress isn't enough, my heart is pounding against my sternum. And by pounding, I mean that. I'll probably have a bruise in the morning.

And that's from just looking at the floor.

I don't even want to think about what kind of spastic physiological reaction I'll have if I look up.

But like I mentioned before, Edward's eyes are like freaking tractor beams, and right now, even though I can't actually see them, I can feel them. Not kidding, they're practically screaming, bellowing a constant stream of, "LOOOOK AAAAT MEEEE."

Which means, _of course_, despite all better reasoning, I have no choice but to obey and follow the long, dark, elegant lines of his tuxedo… past the perfectly fitted waistcoat… past the hand-tied bowtie… all the way up to the magnificence that is his face.

I flinch before I can catch myself, because _holy shit_… The usual sparkling emerald green of Edward's irises is… _gone_. They're flatter and darker, more like a forest at twilight, and that's not just a figment of the low lighting either. His normally playful brows slant downward, too, and there's a deep crease running across his forehead. Really, now that I actually take a second to study, _all_ the angles of Edward's face look sharper. And his mouth – that sinfully decadent mouth of his – is…. _hard_.

This expression… this is a new one for me. If I had to put a single word to it… I'd say… _pissed_.

Oh, yeah, that's definitely it.

Edward Cullen is _pissed._

At me.

And me? I'm… well, I'm just… _confused_.

Not to mention _this_ close to suffocating because my stupid lungs have now decided to revolt and quit pushing oxygen altogether. I just hope I don't pass out. Judging by that pissy expression of his, Edward might not revive me if I do.

The elevator _finally_ dings, and the second the doors slide open, we're out of there. It's a good thing that my feet know where we're going, too, because as we head down the corridor, moving a touch faster than my heels can safely handle, my head is nowhere to be found. It might as well be at the bottom of the ocean. All I can hear or think about is the last words out of Edward's mouth.

And they make no sense!

It's like he was speaking Swahili.

It takes us less than a minute to make it to my door and once we're there, unlike the last time we scurried down this hall, my fingers are surprisingly nimble with the keycard. Could be, that this time I don't have all that distraction. Which, if we're being completely honest, is kind of a shame. Because I _like _Edward's distractions. _A lot._

As soon as we hit the inside of my cabin, I spin around to face him. Not because I want to, because I don't.

See, while, yes, I'm great at yelling at all those asshole criminals, confrontations of the personal sort aren't really my cup of tea. I mean, why else would I have spent all those years with Jake?!

Anyway, those tractor beams are at it again and I just can't help myself. Bypassing the rest of him, my eyes shoot to his. His are still dark, but that's not all. There's this fire behind them. In any other situation, at any other time, I'd be seriously squirming. As it stands… I just fidget and try to figure out what to do with my hands.

Wow, is he pissed…

And maybe… _wounded?_

Nah, just pissed.

"Okay, now answer me." Edward yanks at his bowtie, tugging it loose with a single pull. It's a maneuver he does without even thinking, which says he's no stranger to dressing up. Of course, the fact that he's in full evening dress should have told me that, because how many guys even own a basic tux, let alone the full deal? Either way, I decide that if we make up from this, I'm so asking him to do that again. _Unf. _

"You weren't planning to see me when we got back, were you?"

I shake my head, both to clear it and to negate his query. I have no clue what he's talking about. "Get back where?!"

Edward's eyes do this weird boggling thing. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me…" With an angry rake through his hair, he wrecks any and all attempts he made at calming it. "Home!" His voice is higher than usual, rougher, too. "You know, to _Seattle! _Where we live."

"You don't live in Seattle!" Because he doesn't. He said he lived in Chicago!

I think.

Edward's jacket peels off next. He's not exactly coordinated when he wrenches his arms out of the sleeves, either. Evidently, he gets hot when he gets mad.

I could say so much more on that, you know, seeing as how he's hot all the time, but now's not really the time or place.

"The hell, I don't!"

He's _almost_ yelling.

I'm _almost_ yelling.

This is really absurd.

"You work at Northwestern Memorial. That's in Illinois, not Washington!"

Borne from days of repetition, that last bit comes out immediately and automatically, even as my brain simultaneously starts processing something very, very, _very_ different. A split second later, _my_ light bulb goes off, however, and that confusion and misery from before begins to morph into something a whole more like… _elation_. It's this crackling spark that's sitting in the pit of my stomach, threatening to make me instantly giddy.

_Holy…_

And I just _thought_ my heart was pounding on the elevator. If I don't manage to slow it down, it may just pop out of my chest all _Aliens_-style. I tell myself not to smile, though, just in case I'm wrong.

Cause I'm not taking _anything_ for granted.

I'm also not going to count on my powers of reasoning.

Or observation.

They've _obviously_ failed me. _Miserably. _

Of course, Edward's still unaware of my little epiphany of sorts, and he's still pretty mad. And when I say pretty, I mean _a lot_. His fingers swipe through his hair again. "No, I _don't._"

And now it's his waistcoat's turn to disappear.

As an aside, I wonder if Edward always undresses like this during arguments. I think I could be on board with that.

"I work at the University of Washington Medical Center." Edward's voice loses some of its heat, and then he makes this huffing sound that screams of exasperation. I know this tone quite well since I'm usually the one giving it to all the idiots I face in court. Seriously, you wouldn't believe the people I have to deal with. He adds half a beat later, "I did my _residency_ at Northwestern Memorial. I _told _you all this!"

Okay, now that's something new, and my face scrunches up. "No, you didn't!" I tell him. Except… that exclamation there on the end really comes out more like a question mark.

His jaw drops. "Yes, I _did_."

If it were possible, my face scrunches up even more. I probably look like a Shar Pei. "When?" And that comes out just a little louder than a squeak.

"Seriously?" Edward's delectable jaw is now beyond merely dropped. It's on the floor. As is mine. "I told you all this the night we… went dancing at the Sky Lounge. You know, the night I wound up in…" He waves at the room behind us. "_Here_."

I still.

And then another light bulb goes off, only this one is more like a damned floodlight, and I cover my face in absolute horror.

Holy _fuck_.

"I don't…" I mumble this into my palms, because my face is positively _scorching_. You could probably fry an egg on my cheeks. "Yeah, I don't really… _remember_ that part."

"Well, I _did_."

See! I told you that I was missing some pieces from that night. And I told you that they were possibly (probably) important.

I'm never, _ever _drinking (neon cocktails) again.

"Hold on a minute…" Trailing off, suddenly wild-eyed, Edward glances from me, to the bed, and then back to me.

Before we go on, I feel I should point out that throughout our little… _tiff_, Edward's face has been turning progressively pinker. Not full blown fiery lava like mine, just pink.

But now? Now, just like on the dance floor downstairs, the pink disappears, and it goes right back to ashen. I conclude that this has to be his horrified/flabbergasted tone/look. Completing the image (and confirming my guess), when he turns back, Edward's eyes screw shut and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Just like that emo vampire in that popular YA series, who, coincidently, is also named Edward!

_Huh. _

Go figure.

I don't point that out, however. I'm not sure that he would appreciate the comparison. At least not right now.

"You're telling me," Edward starts again, slowly, as if he's struggling through just how to ask me this. "You're saying that you thought that I lived… where again?"

I wince. "Chicago."

"Chicago… _right._" His head moves up and down, but it's not really a nod. It's more of a I can't believe this kind of motion.

"Then all this time… you've been thinking that _this_…" His hand flails back and forth between us, way more agitated than his speech would imply. "Was _it?_ That all I was after was a couple of _weeks?!_ That all that spilling my guts on the beach the other day was… an _act?!_"

If I weren't so mortified, I'd be impressed. Edward is a _really_ good guesser.

His eyes do that boggling thing again. "Oh, fuck me… So when I said that I was looking forward to going home, you thought…"

"_Yeah._" My nose crinkles and I fidget some more. "I kinda did."

The laugh that tumbles out of Edward's mouth isn't exactly one of amusement. It sounds a lot like someone choking, which would be a bad thing since I have no idea how to do the Heimlich maneuver. "I– I don't know whether I'm insulted… or flattered." He breathes out (thankfully), and it comes out in a tired whoosh of air that puffs his cheeks up. "Okay, indulge me. _Why?_"

"Why what?" I may be stalling.

"If you thought that this was _it_… then why would you…"

Ah, _right_.

I should have known he'd ask the good questions. Then again, I suppose that goes right along with being a good guesser. I'm obviously not used to dating people this smart.

When he doesn't finish his question, hesitantly, I do it for him. "Why would I still want to… _hang out_ with you?"

Edward nods, and this time it's mostly a legitimate nod and only a little bit of I can't believe this.

I lean back against the door, and being the erratic gesturing talker that I am, I shove my hands behind me to keep from looking like a floundering idiot when I reply. "Well… I hoped this wasn't _it_… that maybe we'd work it out somehow…" I gnaw on my bottom lip, but it's not demure, or shy, or sexy at all. No, this is nerves. Pure nerves. Every nerve. _All _the nerves.

Because seriously, who wants to admit this kind of girlish melodrama to the object of her lust/love/like/whatever Edward is?

At the same time, there's this other thing I believe in.

And that's Band-Aids.

That's right, _Band-Aids_.

Band-Aids hurt a lot less when you just rip those fuckers off, and over the last few years, I've found that to be a perfect analogy for life in general.

So… staying true to myself and all that silliness, I blurt out the rest, to just lay it all out there, consequences be damned. "Fine. If it didn't work out, I like you enough to… well, spend whatever time with you that I can."

_Ugh_.

Okay, that sounded _so _much worse out loud than it did in my head. Alice would destroy me for that one. _I _want to destroy _myself_ for that. Cringing inside for all I'm worth, I quickly revise my worldview. Maybe sometimes it _is_ better to slowly peel the Band-Aid off. That way people aren't overly grossed out by what's underneath. Especially when it's a metaphor for crazy.

Where I might have expected Edward to laugh at my lunacy, or cringe (visibly), or maybe run away, he doesn't. Instead, his shoulders just sag into a tired slump. And for a while we… just look at each other. No talking. No moving. Hell, I'm not even breathing.

"Okay, let's try this again," he starts after a long, agonizing moment. When he speaks, he draws out each and every syllable. It kind of reminds me of the way some people talk to little kids, but I'm not about to get on him for that. Considering these last few minutes' worth of revelations, it's not like I can blame him. So for now, it's fine. It's totally fine, because while he's speaking, his shoulders square, and all those hard, angry angles of his face soften and warm.

Oh, my silly, fluttering heart.

With put on formality, Edward extends his hand, all the while giving me the best you better shake my hand and go with this scowl I've ever seen. Of course, I comply, barely holding back my grinning giddiness as those long, pretty surgeon's fingers of his wrap around mine and give them a little squeeze.

"Hi, I'm Edward Cullen. I'm thirty-four years old. I'm a Gemini. I like scuba diving, medium-rare steak, and long walks on the beach."

When I start to giggle, he shushes me and continues. "When I was 7, I thought I wanted to be a marine biologist, but wound up becoming a surgeon, like my dad. I did my undergrad at Dartmouth, and then med school at Northwestern University." Now this part I _do_ remember. "Afterward, I worked there at Northwestern Memorial Hospital and lived in Evanston, Illinois, thirty minutes from where my parents and brother still live."

Edward eyes me for a second, like he's gauging my reaction to see just how much of this is a surprise. I (impatiently) motion for him to keep going. "A couple of years ago, looking for a little adventure…" His expression turns slightly sheepish. "And frankly, to get out of my father's shadow, I took a job across the country at the University of Washington Medical Center, in _Seattle_, Washington. Just so we're clear, I _still _work there. And I live in _Montlake_."

And now I gape. "That's… "

One hot, cocky brow shoots up to his hairline. "Yeah, I _know_. It's fifteen minutes from your condo."

I am… incredulous. And my cheeks are still burning. And none of that is sunburn either. "So… you honestly knew all this time?"

A second brow joins the first. "Of course, I did. Why do you think I was so… _persistent?_ And for God's sake, why didn't you just _ask_ me?!"

And Captain McGood Question strikes again!

Remember when I said I was the capital A in avoidance? Am. I. Ever.

After a moment of consideration, I shrug, because who the heck knows why people behave the way they do. Those creepy old men in my Psyche books sure didn't. Seriously, any dude who equates a toddler's toilet training (or lack thereof) to adult age disorganization and rebellion is pretty fucked up. If you ask me, sometimes crap is just crap.

"I guess… the same reason you didn't ask me if I was married until we'd already started…" I wave between us. "You know, whatever it is we do."

Now, for some reason, that stops him cold, and whatever Edward had planned to say (probably some more much deserved chastisement) gets swallowed as his Adam's apple does one of its famous bobs. He thinks for a second, and I _know_ that he's legitimately weighing my statement, too. His features twist back and forth in obvious indecision. Finally, they settle, and he lets out a little sigh. "All right, fair enough."

By the way, I'm also not used to dating people who don't have to be right all the time. It's… _liberating_.

I chew on my lip again, and this time, there's a few less nerves involved. Maybe, just maybe, I'm playing it bashful as I fish. "So… you're saying that you _also_ assumed that whatever we did here… would…"

"Continue?"

To that, I can only nod. Edward's eyes are doing that hypnotic, come hither thing again, which is always impossible to resist but now it has the added impact of a sledgehammer on my chest. Especially when he all but purrs, "I think you could say that."

Something very, very warm surges through me, and my hands escape their prison before I can stop them. I reach out to smooth the perfectly pressed placket of his tuxedo shirt. "If you ask me," I tell him, tucking my fingers between the shiny buttons. "I think you should be flattered."

Edward's hands close over mine, and before I can blink, he spins us around. "You do, do you?" he murmurs, as his head tilts down, even as mine tilts up. That sinfully decadent mouth of his slants and hovers _just_ over mine, not quite touching, but close enough we're breathing the same electrified air.

"Mmm-hmm." I lift up to my toes to close the gap, but Edward is fast. Really fast, because I'm fast, too. Judging by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, I get that he's playing a little game of hard to get. Which is fine. Because I'll chase him around the entire ship if I have to, and if he's not careful, I may wind up tackling him. He's bigger than me, but I'm… _motivated._

Grinning for all he's worth, Edward dodges my lips again. "And why's that?"

Vaguely, I register that we're moving as we're talking. Okay, that's not exactly true. In all honesty, I don't notice it at all, not until the backs of my knees hit the edge of my mattress. When they hit, because my balance is shit, I start to stumble, but Edward's arms are right there to catch me. It's highly possible (probable) that he planned for that to happen.

Sneaky boy.

I guess he's planning on tackling me, too. Which is also fine.

All sorts of shivery things happen when Edward's fingers slowly walk up my spine. They linger at the tab of my zipper, like they're waiting. "You didn't answer me," he says. And his mouth is _so_ close to mine that I swear I'm about to die. Or combust.

"I just do." Incapable of looking away (or even breathing), _my_ fingers start their assault on his shirt. Let's just say that it's a good thing that the clasps slide open so easily. Otherwise, with the kind of tension we've got building, we'd wind up some kind of horrible Harlequin cliché, complete with popping buttons and ripping fabric.

With all our silly miscommunication and unnecessary drama, I mean, we're contrived enough, as is. We don't need anything else. Hell, I've _thrown_ better books than this!

Thankfully, my non-answer is good enough. And as I swipe my tongue across his lower lip, Edward groans. It's one of those delicious, throaty groans that make me want to climb all over him. Those lingering, waiting fingers of his tug down on my zipper and peel my dress open in the back. Since I'm otherwise occupied, the whole thing falls down my legs into a navy-nearly-black puddle around my feet. I step out with surprising coordination and without even blinking, kick it somewhere out of the way.

Now normally, I'd cringe at that kind of textile mistreatment, especially considering how much I paid for the damned thing. But now? Fuck it. I'll buy another. Or maybe three. I'm sure Alice would be fully onboard with that.

Let's get naked!

"_Jesus_." Edward murmurs that and even though that sexy murmuring thing isn't new, it still makes me all tingly. To make matters worse (better), he steps back, not even bothering to pretend he isn't looking. And oh, _God_, _that_ look is back. He's looking at me like he wants to freaking eat me, and it does gloriously wicked things to my insides. "Please tell me you make a habit of wearing this kind of stuff."

What? Come on, people! You didn't think I'd be wearing ugly undies, did you?

"Just when I have to dress up," I say with a wink, because, okay, it's kind of true.

Don't get me wrong, my daily stuff is pretty damned decent, but it's nothing compared to the scalloped lines and intricate lace of the nude on nude set I'm currently wearing. This is my _really_ nice stuff. You know, the underwear you buy with no real reason for buying it, other than to just _have_ it. Well, and to break out when you want to get laid.

Which I do. Right now. A lot.

I make a mental note to purchase more.

"Then when we get _home_…" One eyebrow lifts like he's just daring me to argue. I don't, since we just did that and all, and instead reach across the space between us to run my nails over his stomach. Really, all those lines and planes are just impossible to resist. And when I feel the muscles ripple and twitch, I do it again. And again. And again, until Edward grabs my wrist and pinions it (gently) behind my back. "Like I was saying," he says, low and gravelly and _right there_ beside my ear. "When we get home, I'll make sure you have _plenty_ of opportunities to dress up."

Things start to get a little blurry then. Not drunk blurry, but sensation blurry. Like my body can't handle everything it's feeling, so it has to shut down half my brain to compensate blurry.

Before I can blink, my second wrist joins the first behind me. My back straightens to counteract the pull on my shoulders and my chest winds up jutting out like an offering. Being the anatomy wizard he is, Edward probably knew that would happen. He grins down at me, looking all mischievous, devilish, and _unf_, and I can't resist smirking right back.

In my best fake-sultry tone, I ask him, "So, now that you have me where you want me, what are you going to do with me?"

Take that, Pauly Shore. I've just upgraded to Sharon flipping Stone.

"You're not where I want you… _yet_." Instead of continuing – preferably by explaining exactly where he does want me and leaving out none of the details – Edward's mouth falls away from my ear and skims up and down my throat, kissing and licking and sucking and _biting_, until I'm all but writhing.

Oh, _fuck_, his mouth.

Seriously, Edward's mouth turns me into a rag doll. My bones melt in his grip and when he works his way back up to my jaw, my head takes the hint and tips back until all I can see is the ceiling. Not coming up from his assault on both my throat and my sanity, he releases my wrists to frame my waist.

When I lift my arms to circle his neck, his lips finally start moving up to meet mine, feathering soft, lingering kisses all along the way.

Honestly, it's mind-boggling just how intensely this man affects me, how every cell in my body seems to be tuned directly to him. It's like we were made for each other. If I weren't such a cynic I'd call us something silly… like fated lovers. Or true companions. Or kindred spirits. Or soul mates. Or… okay, I don't know any more of those things.

Anyway, then again, judging by the heavy pants when he comes up for air and the low, muffled groans in the back of his throat when I lick into his mouth, I get the feeling that we share a mutual kind of madness.

I keep all that to myself, however, and just enjoy the ride.

Speaking of…

Before I go up in flames, I lean back toward the mattress. And Edward's not stupid either. No, he gets what I want immediately. And apparently that's what he wants, too, because as I drag him down on top of me, he comes willingly, chuckling against my lips. "Getting closer."

"What?"

"You're getting closer… to being where I want you," he says, lifting up on his elbows to keep from crushing me. It's nice that he does that, but I want to feel every bit of him, so I squeeze a little to let him know. But I think he has some other plans, because instead of sinking into me, he starts to slide away.

No, strike that.

He starts to slide _down_.

Oh, God. I nearly come unglued as he kisses a long, wet, circuitous path down my neck.

To my collarbones.

To my chest.

To each of my breasts, where he yanks down the cups of my bra and lingers, licking and sucking my nipples hard enough to wreak havoc on my brain.

To my stomach.

To the curve of each hip.

And finally down to the apex of my thighs, where he licks and tastes me through the sheer, damp lace of my panties like a thirsty man who's just found water.

"A little lower… God, just a little lower," I tell him, screwing my eyes shut against the erotic, demanding onslaught of his tongue. Without conscious direction, my hands find the back of his head and my fingers thread through his hair. "Ohhhhhh! Right _there_."

It feels so good I want to cry.

Or come.

Edward's mouth abruptly disappears, but it's gone only long enough for him to peel off my panties. When I'm bare, he's back, doing exactly what he was doing before. And that tongue of his is like the rest of him. It's _magic_.

Wonderful, wicked, delicious magic that takes me to the brink over and over and over, always pulling back just before I go over the edge.

"I'm going to murder you," I say (moan), yanking on his hair.

"You don't like being teased?" Edward asks, and I swear I can feel him beaming against my most… intimate parts. It's absurd, but the fact that we can tease and play and laugh in the middle of sex makes me fall in love with him all over again. "I think you like it a lot when I tease you."

"I'll show yo–" Edward's equally magical fingers stop me mid-sentence, because like before, they're all of the sudden curling inside me, targeting that spot that only he and Mr. Plastic Peen even know exist. "Oh, God."

"No, I'm Edward," he says.

And now he's laughing.

And I'm laughing.

And then… as he lowers his mouth back to my body, while pushing those fingers in even deeper, I'm telling him exactly what he wants to hear. As the orgasm rockets through every bit of my body, blinding me with its force, I hear myself chanting, straight-up pornostyle, "Oh, oh, oh, my God! Edward!"

But this show's not over.

Oh, no.

When my eyes pop back open, Edward's up on his knees, looking down at me with naked lust. Oh, and the rest of him is naked, too, which, to be quite honest, is a little baffling. It tells me that either I just blacked out for a second, or my sorta-definitely new boyfriend/lover is really, really, _really_ fast (not just one 'really'), because I _swear_ that when he went down on me, he was still half-way dressed.

My moment of puzzlement is cut short, however. Cause my focus is immediately seized when Edward fists himself to roll on a condom. I don't even bother asking about it. After all, didn't I already say he's like a freaking boy scout…

But really, it's just mesmerizing.

Those hands.

That… ahem, _member._

Together? At the same time and in the same frame?!

One corner of his mouth pulls up when he catches me staring. "Like what you see, Ms. Swan?"

I shrug, but we all know by now nonchalant really isn't in my repertoire, especially when it comes to this guy. And I like what I see a whole lot. "Not bad."

The other corner pulls up into another one of those gorgeous, heart-melting megawatt grins. "Not bad? You're going to pull that shit again? I'll show you _not bad_."

Before I can answer, Edward slowly prowls back up my body, retracing the same path that he took down a few minutes earlier. I giggle when he kisses each thigh, and then a high-pitched squeal comes out when his tongue runs up my stomach to circle my belly button.

"Get up here, will you." I say (demand), tugging him by the hair. Because while I like all that playing and foreplay, really, I just want _him_.

In me.

Right now.

So much.

Getting the message (that he may just lose a limb), Edward relents. Stretching out on top of me, he settles himself between my thighs. He's hard – _so hard_ – and thick and long and oh, fuck, he's finally, finally, _finally_ right there, right where I've wanted him since the night we did our drunken bump and grind on the top of the world.

But now… it's more.

It's so much more, and my chest pounds with the knowledge that tonight _isn't _just it after all.

At first, we just look at each other, and it's almost like Edward is thinking the exact same thing. After a few long, drawn out seconds, his eyes go a little soft and he leans down to reclaim my lips.

Reminiscent of our kiss on the dance floor, this one is a long, deep, romantic type of kiss. A toe-curling kiss. A heart-pounding kiss. A kiss that makes my skin light on fire and makes my lower half forget the earlier orgasm and clench in anticipation.

Moving in a rhythm that alludes to precisely what's coming next, his tongue strokes against mine, and I can taste where he's been. I don't know why, and that kind of thing has never really affected me before, but right now it turns me on so much that my legs kick out wider and I arch my back to take him inside.

Oh, _God_.

All those tiny, little muscles inside my pu– no, vag– no, hoo– no… oh, hell, just pick your own damned word… spasm and tighten.

He's _so_ going to kill me tonight.

In all the best possible ways.

"_Fuck_." As his hips draw back, Edward's face screws up like he's riding the edge of misery and ecstasy. I can tell that he's a hair's breadth from completely losing it, which I'm a-okay with.

I just need to let him know that.

So now it's my turn to grin up at him because I want every bit of what he's offering. Plus, I just _love _it when Edward says fuck. I run my teeth along his jaw. "Yes, please."

And… we're off!

Okay, now I'll admit that our sex isn't exactly the most graceful thing you've ever seen. It's not that porny, nor is it overly athletic. We don't scream like wild banshees, or break any of the furniture. I don't leave any bloody claw marks down his back. I don't contort into a pretzel or a taco. And while at one point, Edward _does_ bend me over my little blue mini couch and pound me until I come like crazy, we're not even that creative.

But you know what?

It doesn't matter.

Because it's good.

Our sex is so, so, _so_ good.

It's so good that when Edward finally flops down on the bed beside me, panting and groaning something about his hips being sore, which I call BS on, all I can do is giggle and smile and delight in the glory of being… well, in love.

And lust.

Don't think for a minute that just because I might be getting a little mushy, I'm not in lust with him. I'm totally in lust with Edward Cullen. I think I'll always be in lust with him.

Clearly exhausted, but wearing the best satisfied smile I've ever seen, Edward turns on his side and lazily gathers me close. Nuzzling the crook of my neck, he asks, "Still _not bad?_"

My shoulders shake, and that makes him shake since we're pretty much plastered together by our sweat-sticky skin. "Okay, okay…" I yawn.

Hey, it's not like he was the only one working! Reverse cowgirl for anything over 10 minutes is pretty much the equivalent of running a marathon on your thighs, okay.

But Edward just laughs right along with me. "Just admit it, Bella. I'm an amazing lay."

I snort at that. But it's true. He's amazing, period. "I _guess_… "

He squints one eye open and stretches to kiss the top of my shoulder. "Well, fine. You can the amazing one."

Putty?

_Yeah_… I'm definitely putty about now.

"All right." I give him a squeeze. "You're pretty amazing yourself."

I don't know how long we lay there like that, tangled up together, just cuddling and touching and, yeah, sure, trying to regulate our breathing. But eventually, we start to chat, falling into our normal, comfortable thing.

Only now we're doing it naked…

"So, I have another question."

Edward shifts so that he can look at me. "What's that?"

Copying him, I roll to my side and prop my head up. I try to ignore the way his fingers idly stroke over the skin at my waist. It's rather hard to do. "What was with that look anyway?"

He frowns at me in adorable confusion. "What look?"

So I huff. "The first night. You kind of freaked me out."

I can tell the second he catches on. His eyes dart to the mattress, to me, and then back to the mattress. His cheeks are already starting to turn, too. "Do you want the polite answer or the honest one?"

The hell? "Honest, of course." I think we've made it abundantly clear that we need all the honesty we can get.

"Um…" His cheeks morph from pink-ish to positively crimson, and I'm utterly fascinated by this. I've never seen him this shade. I didn't think he had it in him. I mean, this is _my_ level of embarrassed coloring. "I wanted to mount you."

"What?!"

"It's true." Edward's cheeks do this puffing thing and I snicker, shaking him and the bed all over again. "I saw you there at the table. And you were the sexiest thing I'd seen in… God only knows. And you know it's been a while for me. So yeah, I wanted to jump your bones."

I only thought I laughed before. "Jump my bones? Who even says that anymore?"

Rolling his eyes, Edward reaches across the scant few inches between us and catches my chin. "Look, I told you, and I hope it's obvious by now, that I'm not exactly a one night stand kind of guy… so… I told myself to look but don't touch."

In a weird way, that's one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.

I do frown a little, though. "But that night at dinner… what changed?"

Still holding my chin, as well as every bit of my attention, Edward mulls my question for few short moments. When he eventually answers, his forefinger starts lightly tracing the outline of my lips. "I thought about you constantly, especially when you didn't show up the next night. I decided I'd at least… I don't know… flirt with you?" The look on his face reminds me of a middle school kid who just got caught passing a note. "I guess I wanted to see where it went from there." But then he smiles and leans over to kiss my lips. "And then… when I realized that we lived so close together… I wanted to… maybe see if there could be something real there. I just didn't want to talk about it in front of my family, so I waited until we were alone."

By family, I'm pretty sure he really means Emmett. I so don't blame him.

We kiss a little more then. Nothing _too_ hot and heavy, just slow, luxurious kisses. Okay, maybe a bit of petting here or there. Whatever. We do a lot of petting. Which leads to more of before.

See, Edward likes my breasts. A lot.

And I like that he likes them.

I also like Edward's dick. Which, despite our earlier couple of hours of fun and gymnastics, after about thirty seconds of my… _attention_, is impressively hard again. And I know this because when he groans and rolls to his back, pulling me on top of him as he goes, it's nudging up against my [word that you get to pick].

Color me a very lucky woman. Very, very lucky.

"One more," I mumble, already losing coherency as I take him inside me again.

Edward grips my thighs as his (supposedly sore) hips lift off the bed, and I nearly scream at the depth. "We're seriously…" He thrusts into me again and again, and oh, my _God_. "Playing 20 questions right now?"

"What would you say…" My eyes drop to where we're joined. I'm not exactly the most visual of people when it comes to sexy timez, but _holy damn _if watching him move in and out of me isn't the hottest thing I've ever seen. "Oh, God… If I took a small square of fabric…" His thumb finds my self-destruction button, and I laugh/moan. "Maybe in red, and…yes, right there…right _there_… and looped it around your… um, member."

Edward stills.

Which is a little disappointing seeing as how I was _this_ close to coming undone… again.

"Are you asking if you can play dress up with my dick?!"

I think he may be a little horrified, but not enough to pull out. Or stop. Because Edward's grip on me tightens and his hips lift off the bed again. And again. And again. And I can tell by the way this thumbs dig into my thighs that he getting ready to _really_ start pounding.

"No… maybe…" My brain is scrambled. "Okay, yes. I think he'd be a great Super Peen."

When he starts to laugh, Edward loses some of his rhythm. "Well, he is pretty super, I'll give you that."

I slug him then.

He just flips me over.

And just like I predicted, he _really_ starts pounding. _Really._

"Tell you what…" he somehow manages to say between thrusts. "You can dress my dick up if I… get to stick googly eyes to your boobs."

"What?" I try to infuse that with a little bit of indignation, but I can't. Not when Edward is driving me into the mattress and every inch of my body is singing his praises. His pelvis grinds against me, and I have to bite the pillow to keep from screaming.

"Oh, and you have to dance for me." One brow shoots up, and I'm amazed that he has the mental wherewithal to do that while otherwise occupied. "Naked. Except for the googly eyes. "

Okay, and now I laugh and laugh and laugh, because he's ridiculous.

"I'm serious." But Edward winks, and he's grinning, and it's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen. "We can be Super Peen and Googly Tits."

I laugh even harder. Cause I totally love him. I mean that. I really do.

Maybe I'll even tell him when we get back home.

"Okay, _deal_."


	20. SKY

**SKY**

"Where have you been?!"

"What are you talking about?"

"_Duh!_ You were supposed to call me… like two hours ago! I've been worried!"

"No, you weren't."

"_Hel-loo!_ I was too!"

"Pfft, you just missed me. Or you just missed having someone to gossip with."

"That's so not true… although, oh, my God, I have to tell you who I ran into at the grocery store!"

"What? Who?"

"Jessica! And she was _not_ with Mike-y. That ship has done sailed and gone!"

"Well, who was she with?"

"Lauren."

"What?!"

"You remember, that hot ass leggy brunette that we saw her with that time at Starbucks… you know the one she was 'best friends ever' with?"

"How do you know tha–"

"Uh… she had her tongue down Jess's throat."

"Whoa… Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"You know, I'd say poor Mike… but I can't."

"I know, right! He's such a loser. I gave her a thumbs up."

"Speaking of Mike, what the hell is this document on my table?"

"What document?"

"Don't you dare act like you don't know."

"Ummm, it's your free and clear inspection report from the Health Department?"

"Alice, it's written in _pink_ ink and it has hearts where the periods are supposed to be. And there's a Cheetos thumbprint at the top. It doesn't even look remotely authentic. I mean, could you not have at least typed it out?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You never even called them, did you?"

"Ummm."

"Hussy."

"Whatever. So I made that up! You needed a vacation. You were getting totally annoying. Seriously, you had to get out of here."

"_Me?_ _I_ was getting annoying? Are you kidding me?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Bella. Did you have at least _a little_ fun? Please tell me you didn't sit in your cabin being all sulky all the time. Or God, you didn't try to work, did you?"

"Of course, not. I'm not _that _bad."

"Uh, yeah, you are."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Whatever. But yes, I had fun… a little bit. And no, I didn't stay in my cabin the whole the time."

"I knew it! I told you so. I so told you that you'd have a ball! I am officially the best friend _ever_… By the way, do you have any ice cream?"

"What? Yeah, of course, I do."

"No, not the butter pecan you had before."

"How do you know I had butter pecan?"

"Um… maybe I ate it."

"What?"

"Your place is closer to mine that the store."

"You have a store two blocks down!"

"Fine, they didn't have the kind I liked, so when I stopped by to water your plants, which need to be thrown away, if you ask me. Seriously, B, you're really terrible at growing shit. Like total black thumb. So anyway, while I was there, I had a little… _snack_."

"Alice, I had an entire gallon. It was unopened."

"Well, I needed _two_ gallons!"

"Why?"

"Okay, Jazzy may have been being stupid and I needed to eat something… or kill him."

"What did he do?"

"He wants to name the baby Peter."

"What's wrong with that?"

"You're kidding me. He wants to call my baby a penis!"

"Come on now… Peni– I mean, Peter is a… nice name."

"See? You can't even say it without laughing. That's exactly what I told him, but he has it in his head that it's the perfect name. Dumb ass."

"Well, did you two work it out?"

"Yeah, it's fine. We're going with Garrett now. Jazzy doesn't know it yet, though. I'll tell him later. Like when I'm crying and screaming during labor. There's no way he'll argue with me then. So anyway, back to the cruise!"

"What about it?"

"What about it? Are you for real? Tell me everything!"

"It was… nice."

"Oh, my God. How are we friends? Was the food good… oh, God, I'm hungry… _Ugh_. How was the staff? I bet they were amazing. The one we went on for our honeymoon had some fine ass staff."

"Tell me about it… 8's and above everywhere!"

"Right?! What about the rest of the people? Did you meet anyone decent? Like even close to our age? Please tell me you didn't have to sit with a table full of assholes. What about the ports? I've heard the beaches there are incredible… Why are you laughing?"

"Um…"

"Um? You can't Um me!"

"Um…"

"Isabella Marie Swan, what. did. you. _do?"_

"Um… okay, maybe I met someone."

"WHAT?!"

"Gah, Al! Turn it down a notch! My ears can't take that shit!"

"What?! You met someone?! Like a male someone? Like a non-friend, potentially sexin' kind of someone?"

"Yeah… kind of."

"Oh, this sounds _gooo-oood!_ Talk. Right now. Gimme details. All the details! If you leave anything out, I'll die."

"Well… um… he kind of lives here."

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah… he's 34. A lot of our ports ended up getting cancelled due to weather, so… we kind of hung out a lot. He taught me how to snorkel. He's also a doctor."

"WHAT?! Oh, please tell me he works at Harborview."

"No, no, no. His name is Edward Cullen… He's only been in town for like two years. He's over at the Medical Center."

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Hold on, Bella. JAZZY! JAZZY! What? Don't tell me to tone it down! I'll show you tone it down! What? Okay, I love you, too, baby. Hey, do you know some guy named Edward Cullen? B says he works at the Medical Center… What? Really?!"

"What? What did he say?"

"He doesn't know him, but he's heard the name before… but oh, my God, Bella! We're so double dating. You know, once I get this baby out of my stomach. I swear I can't wear anything but sweatpants right now. _Ugh. _You know some people feel all glowy? Yeah, not me. I can't even see my feet! Anyway, so tell me all about him!"

"He's… _amazing_. He took care of me when I got seasick. He chartered a freaking helicopter ride out to some other island when we stopped in Nassau. Seriously, he's just… _yeah._"

"_Gahhhh!_ I'm totally swooning right now. Describe him. I need to know everything! Like… what does he look like? Is he hot? Of course, he's hot… Wait a second… did you sleep with him? Please say you did. Please say you didn't _just_ sleep with he… please tell me he fucked your brains out. He did, right?"

"Uh… okay, yes."

"Yes, you slept with him, or yes, he fucked your brains out?"

"Ah… both."

"YES! Yes! Yes! _Yes!_"

"You'd think you were the one getting some…"

"Bella, do you have any idea how hard sex is for me right now? It's a total PITA... So, wait… you _are_ going to _see_ him now that you're back here, right? You are. You have to. Just how serious is this? Details, woman!"

"Okay, okay… yes, I think you could say that I'm going to be seeing him… a lot of him… um, in fact…"

"Is he over there right now?! Put him on the phone!"

"No, no, no… not yet, at least."

"Not yet?"

"He's coming over in fifteen minutes."

"You _have_ to bring him by. It's a requirement. It's friend-law."

"Not tonight, okay? I think we're just going to chill here. Maybe… tomorrow? And don't huff… I swear I'll bring him by to meet you."

"I guess… So do you like him?"

"Uh, _yeah_? That's not obvious?"

"But do you _really_ like him?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Oh, shit. Oh, shit! Are you _in love_ with him?!"

"No… Maybe… what am I saying… yeah, I am. I really am. I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual, too. It's so ridiculous, right?"

"Say it."

"What?"

"Just say it, Bella."

"Just say what?"

"I told you so!"

"I'm so not saying that. Not when you lied to get me out of the house… Never mind that it worked out and I went on a amazing vacation and found the Anti-Jake."

"The Anti-Jake?!"

"Definitely… For God's sake, stop squealing! You're going to kill my ear drums!"

"Oh, this is definitely serious… I better start scouting reception halls, and bridesmaid dresses, and catering!"

"Calm down!"

"Whatever. Look, if you won't say it, then I will. I told you so! I told you so! I. Totally. Told. You. So!"

"You're awful."

"Pfft! You love me and you know it."

"Maybe… maybe not."

"Maybe not, my ass. Now get off the phone and go get laid. We're talking _all_ about this tomorrow."

"You don't have to sound so smug about it, you know."

"Did you seriously just use the word _smug?_ Who even says that?!"

"Ugh, I don't know… I guess the same people who say… chagrin or something..."

* * *

**_To quote the great Porky the Pig, _ **

**_THAT'S ALL, FOLKS!_**

* * *

**A/N:** thanks so much for reading along. This thing was supposed to be a short, 10k word one shot. It obviously experienced some (a lot of) word creep along the way. But it was fun for me to write. Hopefully, reading has been fun for you.


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